The Road That Leads Home
by Bizi-Myers
Summary: Hank could remember a time where Lovington was a nice place to live-and that was before the mines were shut down. With the threat of a drug epidemic now on the horizon, Hank is fully ready to throw his hat in and leave the town to self-destruct. But that changes when he crosses paths with a very bright, but troubled foster kid by the name of Connor.
1. Chapter 1

**Excerpt taken from a 2013 edition of the Lovington Gazette—Page 1, Article 1 -**

" _Kullman Mines Deemed Unsafe; Workers Now Unemployed"_

 _Just two days ago, an explosion occurred in the local Kullman Mines, which trapped over nearly 50 workers, the mines were temporarily shut down in an attempt to free the individuals trapped. A rescue party led by Sheriff Jeffrey Fowler, alongside varying volunteers from the police and fire department, departed down the damaged shaft the very night it happened; this morning, only 10 of the workers, and a handful of the rescue team walked out. Sheriff Fowler was not amongst them, reportedly having been killed when a faulty wire caught fire, causing the elevator to malfunction and crash._

" _Yeah, I saw the whole thing happen." said Deputy Hank Anderson. "I noticed the sparks on the wire and warned Jeffrey against going back down, but he was determined to get more men out. I guess that was just like him, you know; he never wanted to leave a man behind."_

 _Following this incident, town officials have now deemed the Kullman Mines an unsafe work place and have insisted on it remaining shut down until further notice. Any former employees fortunate enough to have survived are being given their last paychecks, including an extra bonus to take care of any medical bills they may have._

 _There hasn't been any word as to if there'll be any attempt to recover the bodies of those lost, but for now, the town has planned a candlelight vigil to honor and mourn the victims. This vigil is planned for this Saturday at Winslow Park, which has already prepared a shrine in honor of the individuals killed. A separate memorial service has been planned for Sheriff Fowler, in which many family and friends are expected to be in attendance._

 _As of right now, there has been no official word of who will be replacing him—there had already been some speculation who would be taking the job over, as Fowler had announced his intentions to retire in a few months. But no one was quite expecting him to be taken from his job, or his life, as soon as he was. Many townspeople suspect that it will be Deputy Anderson who will be fulfilling the role—as one officer had reportedly overheard the two discussing the matter just two months prior to the mining incident._

 _Whatever the case, Lovington is sure to be seeing some darker times ahead of itself now that the mines have been shut down. One can only hope that this shut down is indeed temporary, and that the mines will be back up and running in a few months._

* * *

In Hank's mind, there were only two things he needed to get his day started. A cold shower, and a strong, black coffee with two stiff shots of whiskey. But being violently pulled from the bliss of sleep by the blaring of his old alarm clock?

That was definitely not one of those things.

That was something he could live without.

It was both horribly upsetting and hilarious at the same time when he thought about it—one minute, he'd be in his dreams, where life was perfect, and nothing sucked. And the next minute, he'd be startled awake and pulled back into a depressing reality. And while the comfort of the dreams would fade, and the awfulness of reality slowly crept in on him, he would lay in bed for another five minutes while the alarm continued to be an annoying reminder of that bleak reality in which he lived in and would soon have to get up and exist in for yet another day.

He was in bed now, not having moved in those entire minutes, and the alarm hadn't gotten the memo that it was time to pipe down yet. It didn't help that it was entirely overcast and raining outside—not the type of weather that would motivate you into getting up in the morning, but Hank had to admit that even on sunny days he couldn't find the motivation to drag himself out of bed.

Grunting, he rolled over on his side, reaching to switch off the clock, but in his defense, he was still slightly hungover from the previous night's endeavors and felt like someone was repeatedly kickboxing him in the temples. And the loud beeping certainly wasn't helping things any, let alone help him focus.

Because of this, his fingers ended up fumbling around trying to blindly find the switch on the clock, before he gave up entirely. Grumbling to himself, he sat up and practically yanked the device from the wall, chucking it on the floor where it landed in several broken pieces.

 _Cheap fuckin' thing, why do I even bother..._

Well, he was up now. As much as his brain demanded he lay back down, he knew better. Because of he did that, it would be another six hours until he showed up at the police station, and even then, he doubted that he would've gotten enough rest. He could sleep a whole day and still manage to show up to work in an almost completely disheveled state—sometimes either forgetting to put on the right shoes or leaving his badge at the house.

No, he wasn't going to allow that today. Not when he'd shown up that way yesterday, oh hell no. He wasn't about to go for two days in a row and give his co-workers another opportunity to make fun of him.

Huh.

Perhaps that was the only thing really motivating him to get up. The chance to spite his fellow officers by showing up at hours they didn't expect him to. Or maybe, just the chance to spite in general.

So, and regrettably so, he pulled himself out of the bed, instantly being greeted with the unwelcoming chill of the air coming from the AC vent above him—and a few short minutes later, that cold chill of the AC was replaced by the cold chill of the shower water as he stepped inside the tub. Not that he'd ever been a fan of cold showers in the past, but he'd read somewhere that they were beneficial to your health...mainly some shit about how they increased alertness or something.

And on mornings where he felt like this, he needed that increased alertness. It helped him look like he actually gave a crap about his job.

Which, by this point, he wasn't sure if he did anymore.

He stepped out of the shower, stopping past the mirror on his way out of the bathroom. Good lord, his reflection was a sorry one. Did he look alert today? He couldn't quite tell—maybe it was because the sleep was still heavy on his face, or maybe this had just become his neutral expression.

Either way, this didn't change anything.

An old razor blade sat untouched on the sink's edge, and for a minute, he contemplated almost picking it up and taking it to the bird's nest that had formed around his face. He contemplated such a thing almost every morning, and every morning he would decide that it just wasn't worth the effort.

Padding back to his room, Hank stopped at his dresser and, after being met with some resistance, was able to pry open the twenty-five-year-old drawer open in order to dig through his clothes, most of which, were not folded. It took great effort to find clothes that weren't wrinkled, leading him to settle on the least wrinkled pair of pants, a white t-shirt, and a tan button-down shirt that had seen better days. It still had a small coffee stain at its hem, but it wasn't like anyone was going to notice it.

Halfway into buttoning his shirt, he spotted his badge resting on a mess of magazines residing atop the dresser. Stopping, he reached over, and picked it up, running his thumb over the cold metal, where his name was engraved.

 _Sheriff Hank Anderson._

Hm. He'd used to think that had a nice ring to it. Nowadays, he wasn't so sure.

Sighing heavily, he looked up to the bedroom mirror, carefully pinning the badge onto his shirt. One black tie later and gun belt later, he'd left the bedroom and walked down the hall to the kitchen, not before nearly tripping over a formerly-sleeping dog, who merely looked up at him innocently as Hank cursed under his breath.

"You know, Sumo..." He said, cutting an annoyed look down at the animal. "You have a nice dog bed out in the living room, one that I paid 80 fuckin' bucks for. How's about giving that a try for once?"

The only response he got from the dog was a loud yawn, as he stood up and trotted off down the hall. Hank huffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah, that's what I thought..."

He continued his walk to the kitchen, where Sumo was already pawing and sniffing at his empty dog bowl, before moving over to whining at the large bag of dog food that was almost spilling to the floor.

He didn't make things any easier for Hank as he tried to pick the food bowl up, continuously pawing and doing little hops on his front paws as he eagerly waited for his breakfast. There was a good chance he was just excited he was getting it this early for once, unlike other late mornings where Hank had awoken from a drunken stupor to find him tearing into the dog food bag.

"Alright, alright—watch it-" Hank had to push the big dog down, as he was all but jumping up on him by now. He managed to get a sizeable amount of food into the bowl and sat it down, allowing the Saint Bernard to happily chow down on his kibble. Once he made sure Sumo was settled, Hank moved to finding something for himself to eat.

He made a mental note to pay a trip to the store later this week, as his search through the cabinets revealed just how long it had been since he'd done such a thing. The most he found was a week-old box of donuts, so shrugging, he took one out of the box and stuck it in his mouth, all while perusing the fridge—finding nothing but expired orange juice and a few beers inside.

Well, any other morning, he'd love to snatch a beer up for breakfast, but his lingering hangover warned him against it. So, he merely shut the fridge and decided he'd just grab a coffee once he got down to the station; he didn't feel like making any now, and if he was early enough, he'd be able to get at least four or five cups before Gavin showed up and started hogging the damn thing.

Speaking of which, he'd have to leave now if he wanted that chance. It was already 7:15 and it was about a fifteen-minute drive to work—so he grabbed another two donuts from the box and gave Sumo was a quick scratch behind the ears (even though the big dog was more or less still focused on consuming his breakfast), making his way to the front door. He snatched up his jacket from the couch on his way, throwing it on whilst walking out.

The minute he stepped outside, he was greeted with the chill of an early November morning. It didn't seem to be raining as much at the moment, but it was still a tad cloudy out, with the threat of more rain on the way. He expected as much, Lovington didn't get much in the way of sunny days in the colder seasons.

Somehow, it was oddly befitting for this town. He couldn't remember the last time this place had seen a sunny day, ever since the mining incident. Metaphorically, anyways.

He seated himself in his car, taking a good minute to find his keys, before realizing they were stuffed into the lowest corner of his jacket pocket. Mumbling to himself, he took them out and started up the engine, having to twist the keys around a few times before the old mutter pathetically sputtered and started to hum.

As he backed out of the driveway, he stopped momentarily to reach up and adjust the rearview mirror. His thumb brushed across a small photograph pinned inside—a photograph of a small boy, no older than six or seven. Hank's mouth pressed into a tight line, and he inhaled sharply, bringing his focus back into backing the car out onto the street.

After narrowly avoiding backing into a pothole that he could've sworn he'd yelled at the town officials to take care of, he was driving out of the neighborhood and onto the road that led into downtown.

* * *

It was about 7:30 when he showed up at the station.

There weren't too many cars parked in the parking lot, which meant he would be getting the first shot at the coffee this morning. Unless of course, Amelia, was already here—but she hardly drank the stuff. She always ended up bringing her own thermos of whatever tea she'd felt like drinking that day. Whatever it was, it was always something healthy—mainly green tea, which she'd offered Hank a cup of on her first day working there.

That had been the last time he'd decided he was going to accept anything she offered him.

Really, he had nothing against her. She was a sweet girl and was one of the few people he could stand talking to around this place, but she was also a health nut, and had made it her personal goal to make sure the fridge was cleared of sweets before anyone showed up to work. Which, when Hank thought about, was probably why she was always the first one here.

Realizing that she was no doubt already seated at her desk and would probably chide him the minute she saw him with the last donut he hadn't managed to finish (because of having to drive as slowly and carefully as possible through the never-ending amount of roadwork that he could've sworn had finished up several days ago), he quickly shoved it in his mouth, and swallowed it just as quickly—leaving him feeling like his stomach was going to think he'd just lost his teeth.

The air around him transitioned from cold to warm as he stepped inside the building, and it was more than welcome to him after the few short seconds he'd had to walk from his car to the station's entrance. Already he could see that many of the desks were empty; either everyone wasn't here yet or were off rescuing someone's cat from a tree. The only person who was visible was Amelia, seated behind her desk, and her thermos next to her, as it always was.

She was typing at the computer as Hank walked in, looking up at the sound of the glass doors shutting behind him.

"Oh, Sheriff. Good morning." She greeted him, with a hint of surprise in her voice. Like everyone else here, she probably half-expected him to come waltzing in at 2:00 in the afternoon, so sometimes, coming here early just to see the surprise on his co-workers faces made it all worth sacrificing another several hours of sleep.

"Mornin', Amelia."

Hank offered a smile, albeit a brief one, as a return to her greeting, and immediately made his way over to the coffee machine. As much as Amelia proclaimed to not like it, she was gracious enough to have a nice full pot brewing before any of the officers showed up, and for that, he was grateful. The headache from his hangover was still in the back of his head and showed no signs of leaving anytime soon, and after the alarm clock incident this morning, he doubted he would've been able to even manage getting a pot of coffee put together.

He just hoped he'd be able to get his cup and get to his office before Amelia decided to make another tea offering. But, of course, right on cue, he could already hear her chair scooting back as he picked up one of the styrofoam cups from the table, and her heels were already clicking across the floor towards him as he began to pour the coffee into his cup.

"Hey...Sheriff—"

"Not interested."

Her mouth snapped shut at Hank's blunt interruption, and she sighed, taking out the thermos from behind her back.

"Come on, I promise it's not green tea this time." she insisted, all while Hank set the pot back down. He tore off the top of a sugar packet, merely side-eyeing Amelia's thermos as he dumped the contents of the packet into his cup.

"Oh yeah? What is it this time?"

"Rooibos tea. I found a recipe for it online last night." Beaming, Amelia unscrewed the top of her thermos and tipped it forward ever so slightly, to reveal a rather orange-colored beverage inside. The smell itself wasn't entirely pleasant, and Hank didn't spend long looking inside before immediately going back to preparing his coffee.

"Hm, yeah. I'll pass."

"You sure, Sheriff?" She pursed her lips, screwing the lid back on. "This stuff is supposed to decrease blood pressure, and considering how high yours probably is—"

"Christ, stop. You're startin' to sound like my goddamn doctor." Hank tossed the sugar packet into the trash can and picked his cup up, taking a quick sip...which, was honestly a rather bitter, and rather hot sip. "If I wanted a lecture on my blood pressure I'd have gone to talk to him instead."

"Well...I'm just saying..." Even as she was going back to her desk to set the thermos down, it didn't seem like she was done with her sales pitch yet. "I've seen you pay a visit to that coffee pot at least 5 times every day...seriously, that can't be good for your blood pressure."

"For fuck's sake, Amelia, a lot of stuff isn't good for your blood pressure." Hank stopped halfway to his office, and after swallowing another mouthful of coffee, spread his arms apart in a grand gesture to reveal himself.

"But hey, look at me. I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Amelia glanced at him as she picked up a folder from her desk, snorting.

"Dunno. It's getting kinda hard to tell anymore."

Hank's mouth open and shut, as any response he was trying to think of wasn't coming to him. The one arm that wasn't currently holding coffee in it dropped back to his side, exasperated.

"Oh..." He bit down on his lip, biting back the urge to laugh. That was not funny, what she'd said wasn't that funny, but a part of him wanted to laugh at it. She wasn't wrong, to be fair, he'd looked at himself in the mirror every day and thought the same thing.

"Oh, yeah...sure. Very funny." All while jabbing his finger at her, he downed another bitter sip of coffee while she laughed. "Hey, just remember, you aren't getting paid to make fun of me. I might decide to have your salary cut in half."

"Oh, no you won't."

"Really? You don't think so?" Hank's brows drew together, and he snorted. "Okay, well, have fun looking at a half-baked check, this month."

Amelia eyed him from the file she was looking at, coyly smiling.

"I look forward to it."

Hank shook his head at her and turned his back, surveying the practically empty office in front of them. He could vaguely make some identifying contents on some of them, which showed that some people had been here besides Amelia had been here. He recognized one of them as Gavin's—it wasn't hard to make out with his custom sarcastic coffee mug that was placed near the keyboard. And looked like he'd left his cellphone there too, pfft.

Idiot.

"Hey, where the fuck is everyone at, anyways?" He turned back to her, as she sat back down at her computer. "I know I'm early for once, but this is ridiculous."

"Oh no, they were definitely here." Amelia filed through a bunch of papers before pulling one out and setting it down next to her. "But Chris's wife ended up needing him to come back home for something, and I think Gavin went out to Mrs. Kowalski's place, just a few minutes before you got here."

"God, you're tellin' me she's called already?" Hank had moved to the window, peering out through the blinds for any signs of his deputies. He looked back to Amelia, disbelief on his face. "It's not even 9:00 yet—what the hell happened this time?"

"Beats me. I couldn't make anything out through all the Polish she was screaming at me." Amelia shrugged, as she typed out something on her keyboard. "But I'm willing to bet her dog probably got loose and bit another neighborhood kid, again."

"Eh, wouldn't surprise me. I keep tellin' her she needs to get a muzzle for that thing." Hank sighed and took another swig of his coffee, but silently chuckled within himself. With Mrs. Kowalski being one of their daily callers, he almost always dreaded having to go over to her house and deal with whatever daily task she'd seemed to have prepared for the department.

One of those things was dealing with her beast of a German Shepherd, who was far too overprotective for his own good. At one point, Hank had almost considered asking her to let the dog work at the department, but he'd decided against it—even if he'd asked jokingly, she would've been horrified at the suggestion. She treated that thing like it was a baby and was always quick to shoot down whoever looked at him bad.

Which, that was something Gavin did on a regular basis, and that was the very reason why Hank had chuckled. Nothing his superiors ever said or did seemed to intimidate him very much, but one glare and a good scolding from a little old Polish lady was enough to make him shake in his boots. He was almost sad he wasn't there to see it today, but on the other hand, he was just happy he didn't have to deal with the likes of Mrs. Kowalski today.

Not yet anyways. She was likely to call again if Gavin had anything to do with it.

Noticing that he was almost down to the pit of his cup, he went back to briefly refill his cup, this time, nearly filling it to the brim. He then headed back across the station, towards his office.

"Well, I'm sure we'll hear all about it once he gets back." He said to Amelia as he passed her by, stopping at his office door. "Unless anything else happens before then, don't bother me."

"As usual. Of course." Amelia mock-saluted him and was about to turn back to her computer, when she gasped and looked back up. "Oh, yeah! I'm still sorting through some of the old files—the sorted ones are on your desk if you wanted to look them over."

"Sure." Hank twisted the door open, taking a cautious sip from the coffee this time. Not quite as hot, but still very bitter. With Amelia back to work at her laptop, he walked into his office and shut the door behind him, the sound of Amelia's typing and the whirring of the vent developing into background noises as he did so.

It was quiet, now. A heavy, smothering sort of quiet—the same one that washed over him each day that he stepped into this room, and looked around it. Certificates and photos lined the walls, looking like they hadn't been dusted in ages, some newspaper clippings as well. A small table sat next to one of the file cabinets, an aged-record player resting atop it.

Hank walked over to it, briefly eyeing the messy stack of records beneath it, before kneeling long enough to pull out an old Miles Davis record from beneath a Benny Goodman record, blowing the dust off from it. Soon, the deafening silence in the small room was replaced with easy-going jazz tunes, as Hank placed the record atop the player, and stood back up, turning back to look around the room once more.

The music hadn't really helped much, things still felt just as stifling as they did every day in here. He really only turned it on as a distraction, just so things wouldn't be too heavy—but even then, it just didn't help and ended up becoming background noise, just like Amelia's typing and the vent were right now.

His eyes then settled on the chair. That ancient, leather chair, that he was sure had been here years before he'd ever started working in here. No doubt many a sheriff had gone and sit in it, but that did little to ease the guilt Hank felt anytime he sat down in it. True, it had been a solid five years since the mining incident and since Jeffrey had been killed, but there was something haunting about being in the same place your deceased predecessor had been, years before.

Haunting or not, however, he sat down anyways, the old chair creaking underneath its weight. Amelia had constantly tried to convince him to upgrade to a newer chair for several months now, as this one was basically at the point of falling apart, but Hank couldn't do that. Not when he'd made that same suggestion to Jeffrey once, and he'd pretty much given him the same response that Hank himself had given Amelia, except with a few different choices in words.

" _Parting with this thing would be like someone deciding to steal the Declaration of Independence, Hank. It's a part of this office's history, and with how modern everything is nowadays, it wouldn't hurt to have a bit of old fashioned in here."_

His words echoed in Hank's ears, as he settled back in the chair. It was nearly incredible how he could replay that event in his mind, like it was happening right in front of him. He was seated in the very position Jeffrey had been in, and he could almost see himself seated in front of it. In fact, the events of that conversation and day were so crystal clear, that he was certain he could quote it by heart.

Mainly because that had been a day that no one had been able to forget. A short time after he and Jeffrey had had this conversation, they'd gotten word of the mining accident.

That was the last time this room had ever felt so warm and welcoming, and the last sunny day that Lovington had ever seen.

Things had been so...ugly, and cold since then.

If it weren't for the newspaper clippings in his office, Hank would've almost forgotten that this even _was_ Lovington. It wasn't the same town that he and his ex-wife had moved into before Cole was born, he knew that much. More business had been open then, more stores; but with the ever-growing financial burdens, he'd seen more and more "For Sale" signs than he'd had liked to have seen.

He sat his coffee on his desk and moved to picking up one of the numerous files that Amelia had mentioned. Thumbing through, all he could do was shake his head the further he went, reading reports that entailed numerous robberies and acts of violence that had occurred in only the past two months. He didn't know how half these thieves thought stealing would be the answer to their woes, it wasn't going to help put this place back on it's feet.

Slamming the file shut, he grumbled and tossed it back onto the stack. Sometimes, he wanted to ask himself what had happened, to make things end up this way. But he didn't need to, not when these reports kept piling up, and not when he'd been the very witness to the event that had sent this town derailing down a dark road.

 _Things could've been okay,_ he'd thought to himself. Things really could've turned out okay after that accident; yes, the town would've been in a mourning state, but maybe things could've turned out a whole lot better. Maybe the mine's reopening could've gone better, maybe it wouldn't have been permanently shut down, and finances wouldn't be so tight.

Maybe Hank wouldn't have been so preoccupied that year. It'd only been his first year as sheriff after all, and it hadn't been fair—it hadn't left much time to do anything other than take control of the mess left behind after Fowler passed. Maybe he could've had a better chance to stop the—

He startled, not realizing how much he'd sunk into his thoughts until he'd nearly dropped his coffee cup in the process of picking it back up. Muttering to himself, he put the cup aside and went back to picking out another file to look at. No, he'd showed up early today, he couldn't waste his time by letting his thought process spiral out of control for the umpteenth time. That would lead him straight back to Jimmy's Bar by 6:00 PM tonight.

A quick knock sounded at his door, and before he'd had a chance to glance up, Amelia had poked her head inside.

"Hey, Sheriff. Sorry to bother you," she said. "But I just got a call from Ben. Something's happened downtown."

Hank stared back at her for a moment, before responding. He'd figured it'd only be a matter of time before he'd be called in for something, it was one of the numerous grand reminder of why he didn't like to get here early. A classic example of the cons once again outweighing the pros.

He closed the file he'd picked up, stiffly nodding.

"Uh...okay, yeah, tell him I'll be there in a few minutes."

She nodded and left, the door clicking shut as she shut it. Hank let out a heavy sigh as he pushed his chair back, and stood up, though it took a grand amount of effort to do so. Getting out of bed was one thing, but this chair was a whole other story. The cushion had sunk in so far that he'd had to grab onto the desk to assist himself, and once he did, finished off the last large gulp of coffee in his cup, before heading out of his office.

So far, it was suiting up to be yet another typical day.

And honestly, he wasn't sure if he was dreading it, or looking forward to it.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the rain drops that fell in through the cracks of the ceiling that startled the coin out of Connor's fingers. Each one splashed onto his hand, seeming colder and bigger than the ones that had fallen in before it. The quarter he'd been playing with flew out from where it'd previously been between his pinky and ring finger, hitting the floor with a small thud.

Gasping, Connor looked over again to see more rain droplets hitting his hand, smacking at them like they were some kind of annoying bug. He didn't know why he'd done that, that hadn't really helped things—more droplets were falling in now as the rain picked up outside, some smacking and forming tiny puddles on his mattress.

Quickly unplugging his headphones, Connor got up from the bed and knelt beside it, reaching in to pull out a rather dirty looking bucket, to which he sat atop the area where the rain was falling. The soft plops of water then transitioned to loud smacks as they began to fill up the bucket, and Connor gave a tiny smile of satisfaction at having solved his problem.

He was about to sit down on the bed again, when a loud screech sounded from outside the room he was in, and he looked over, out the door, to see a half-dressed toddler running through the hall, laughing and screaming as the voice of his foster mother followed her, shouting obscenities at the child.

His smile faded, and he picked his headphones back up, plugging them back in as he sat back down on the dry part of the mattress. The chaos outside the room continued, but he didn't care to listen to it any longer—he'd already pressed the "play" button, and the only thing he could hear now was Metallica.

He panicked momentarily when he realized his coin wasn't next to him, relaxing as he soon spotted it on the ground where he'd previously been kneeling just a minute prior. Careful not to knock over the bucket in front of him, he scooted to the edge of the bed and reached down, scooping his quarter back up.

As the song's long intro finally finished and the lyrics began, he resumed the trick he'd been doing before the rain drops had scared him out of it. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still somewhat see that his foster mother had finally managed to snatch the screaming toddler, although she was still very much fighting to get out of the woman's arms.

But he couldn't hear any of it, and he chose not to look anymore, either. All his focus went back to his coin trick, and the song he was listening to. It'd probably be another two hours before there'd be enough peace and quiet for him to feel comfortable in unplugging his music.

Who was he kidding, though?

He wasn't sure he even knew what peace and quiet was. If there was such a thing, then it was definitely a rare thing in the Phelps house.

For the six months that he'd been living here, it'd been something Connor had quickly become accustomed to, and something, that by now, he was sure didn't even phase him anymore. Perhaps it was because the minute his ears picked up on any sort of aggravating noise, he'd plug his headphones into the old mp3 player he'd found stashed away in his foster parents' closet, and would spend the next several hours with loud, heavy metal streaming into his ears while the chaos around him continued.

He'd always been told if he listened to too much heavy metal, that'd he end up going deaf someday. But he didn't know what else they wanted him to listen to, when that was the only music he could find on the device, and maybe the only music that ended up drowning out all the unpleasant noises that he would wake up to every day. The same noises of frenzied shouting, crying kids, screaming kids, and sometimes even the smoke alarm going off.

It was different every day, and something different would always start it off every day, leaving Connor going to sleep with the wonder of what the start of the next day's chaos would be. This morning, it had all started off with his foster mom, Heather, yelling at one of the kids to get off the table, said-kid ignored her and continue crawling around on the table while the other six kids, including him, had attempted to eat breakfast.

That had ended with the table nearly falling over, with half the breakfast dishes hitting the floor. It'd been a nice, sticky mess to clean up, complete with a pool of syrup on the floor and one of the cats attempting to eat what was left of the pancakes.

Most of the other kids had been quick to vacate the crime scene before they could get roped into cleaning the mess up, leaving Connor and the kid who'd been crawling on the table to be the ones to do the job. Any other day, he was sure his foster parents wouldn't have cared about the mess but given that the family had a visit from the social worker coming up, things had to look good around here.

After that, however, he'd been quick to run back to his room, and had been in there ever since. He knew things were going to be ten times as hectic as usual, with the visit coming up, and his foster mom wanting things to be in tip-top shape. He'd lost count how many times he'd seen her go past his door and would've gladly gone over to shut it if one of the house rules wasn't to keep the doors open at all times.

And he wanted to follow the rules. It was one of the things he'd been taught to do back at the group house—and it was something he intended to continue doing. Amanda had always told him if he followed the rules and behaved, that maybe someday, he'd have better chances of finding a permanent home.

Nobody wanted a misbehaved kid, after all.

But in all the sixteen years that'd he spent in the system, there was a tiny part of him that desired to question if following the rules were worth it or not. Still, he continued to follow them anyways.

Now very deep in his thoughts and far too entranced with perfecting his coin trick, he hadn't even noticed that Heather was at his door and had already shouted his name a couple of times. She shouted it again, and when he didn't answer, proceeded to storm over and smack the headphones off his head.

"For fuck's sake, Connor!"

He lightly gasped, startling. The coin once again fell out of his hands and he looked up at his foster mother, who was shoving his headphones and mp3 player into the unkempt dresser next to him. She was cursing silently, not loud enough for him to make out what she was saying, but loud enough for him to make out a few discernible swears that he was all too used to hear from her and his foster dad's mouths by now.

"Heather—I—" He started, but snapped his mouth shut as she swung her finger up at him, indicating that she wasn't about to hear any excuses. When she made sure he wasn't going to speak, she went back to her attempt in shutting the dresser drawer, managing to slam it shut, and securing the confiscated items inside.

"You know damn well what Joe and I said about this thing." She scolded him, picking up the laundry basket she'd placed on the ground. "You can't just sit around listening to it all day, not while the other kids are doing chores."

"I'm sorry, Heather—"

"And how do you think that makes them feel?" Heather ignored him and stooped down, gathering up a pile of dirty clothes from underneath his bed, and dropping them in the basket. "You think it's fair to them? You think because you're the oldest, you're excused from doing any work?"

She stood up, placing a fist on her hip. Connor looked up, meeting her angry stare with a calm, ashamed expression.

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry." His tone sounded stiff, not at all matching the look on his face. "Are there any other chores I can do to make up for it?"

Heather's only response was to sneer, and harshly shove the laundry basket into him, to where it was nearly digging into his ribs. She looked fully ready to launch some snide remark at him, until she was interrupted by the sound of her husband's voice yelling for her. Shooting one last look Connor's way, she departed the room, an "I'm coming, shut up!" the last words he heard before the sound of a bedroom door slammed shut.

Now alone, Connor glanced down into the basket. She hadn't directly told him it what it was she'd wanted him to do but judging by the fact that she'd left without this thing in her arms, he could only guess she wanted him to take care of the laundry. That, or pick his clothes up from the floor...or both.

Oh well, it didn't matter. If he was wrong, he'd definitely be hearing about it later.

Getting up from the bed, he decided to go about doing both tasks—that first task being picking up the dirty clothes he'd tossed onto the floor before he'd gone to bed last night. It wasn't like he'd purposefully left them there, but when you shared a small room with four other boys, you only had enough time to throw your clothes off and sprain your ankle whilst trying to put on a pair on pajama pants, so you'd have enough time to get to the one bed in the room before someone else did.

And if you didn't, you had to sleep on the floor, with the pile of discarded clothes.

So, really, it wasn't just his stuff on the floor that he was putting into the laundry basket—he picked up a Superman t-shirt that he was sure belonged to the boy who'd kicked him in the back last night...bird socks, yeah, he was pretty sure these weren't his. Half of this stuff was Rupert's, why wasn't he in here picking this shit up? Couldn't this have been one of those days where Connor could stay inside this room and be forgotten about?

 _Because he wasn't told to do this job,_ a small voice in the back of Connor's mind chided him for the thought. _You were told to do this, Connor, not him. You can't avoid your responsibilities, Connor._

Right.

Follow the rules. Do as you're told to do, and don't complain about it.

What other choices did he have?

The basket was filled to the brim by the time Connor had finished, and he'd had to stuff down the last few articles of clothing to prevent it from piling over. He sat it down long enough so that he could stand back up, and once he was up, picked the basket back up with a sigh, and exited the room.

The hallway was an instant war zone the minute he'd stepped into it—toys littered the whole thing, starting from Joe and Heather's room, and ending at the girls' room. Not only did Connor have to avoid tripping over a mess of blocks, but he also found himself having to try and avoid stepping on the cat he'd nearly mistaken for another stuffed animal. He only realized the poor thing was a real animal when he'd stepped on its tail, causing it to screech at him and run away.

He looked back as it fled, feeling a little bit bad for the cat as he watched it disappear under one of the ratty old sofas in the living room. Well, that'd certainly been the last thing he'd been intending to do today—that poor cat already had a bad life, living off whatever scraps its owners decided to feed it and basically never getting to go to the vet for shots. He'd just made things worse by basically insulting its honor.

He was about to walk away when his attention was turned away from the fleeing cat, to two of his foster siblings chasing each other around the room. Each were swatting at the other with styrofoam swords and were dangerously close to knocking into the fish tank that was precariously placed on the half-wall in front of the kitchen.

Which was exactly what they did, but neither seemed to notice. Despite the fish tank rocking over, and the one innocent dwarf gourami inside falling out alongside a small cascade of water. Connor could see the wounded cat peeking out from underneath the sofa, no doubt plotting to make that fish its lunch.

Deciding he didn't want to ruin anyone else's day, Connor sat the laundry basket down and headed to the living room.

"Watch it!" He called out, holding up his hand to stop one of the kids, as they'd nearly stomped all over the struggling fish. The kid didn't seem to care much, and just spat her tongue out at him before speeding away to chase her brother.

Shaking his head, Connor knelt and surveyed the fish for a minute. It flapped against the wet carpet, its eyes darting everywhere in a way that he could only describe as fearful. He felt a pinch of pity for the creature and carefully scooped it into the palm of his hand, letting it drop back into the tank as he stood back up.

Stooping to the level of the tank, he watched as the fish swam away, disappearing behind the small castle inside. Hm, well, at least he'd get to be happy today, despite his near-death experience.

The situation now taken care of, Connor went back to the hall and picked the basket back up, and just in time too. One of the babies was crawling out from the girls' room and had spotted the basket and had been crawling to it right as Connor had came back to pick it up. She let out a small cry as he walked away, but he ignored it. He couldn't solve everyone's problems today, and he was already taking too long to do this one thing—it didn't sound like Heather and Joe were done talking, but he'd rather be safe than sorry in the case that Heather came back out here and found out he hadn't done the laundry yet.

He entered the tiny laundry room, and although the door was wide open, it was the one room in the house next to the bathroom and his foster parents' room that didn't have the door open 24/7 most of the time. Heather had probably just left it open when she'd came in here to retrieve the laundry basket.

He sat the basket down on the dryer and looked up at the shelf above him, his eyes scanning it for any sign of detergent. Of course, Heather had had to leave it on the highest shelf in the room.

As much as he didn't want to do so, Connor had to nearly climb the washer to retrieve the box, nearly knocking over a package of paper towels in the process. He let out a tiny "aha" as he was finally able to get the detergent down from its spot, and attempted to climb down as carefully as possible, only to get startled by a loud voice yelling a bunch of unintelligible words from the next room.

He hit the floor with an "oof", dropping the box of detergent next to him. He could still hear the loud voice as he got back up, able to discern it as Joe's. He tried not to pay attention too much, rather trying to focus on dumping all the clothes into the washing machine, but he couldn't help but pick up on a few words anyways.

" _Went wrong—"_

" _Drugs—"_

"— _I don't fucking know—"_

It was none of his business. It was really none of his business as to what they were talking about, but he wondered anyways. It had to be nothing good if it had gotten this loud, and his curiosity had been somewhat piqued. Amanda had always told him that being curious was a bad thing, and that it would get him in trouble—but still. If Joe and Heather were having a discussion this loudly...

Connor shook himself. No, it was none of his business. It wasn't his place to know anything other than what he needed to know, and to not meddle in other people's issues.

He went back to the task at hand—finishing the laundry. As he finished sorting the clothes out, he noticed there seem to be a pile of Joe's stuff shoved into the corner of the room. Puzzled, but knowing he'd very well be scolded if Heather came in here to find another mess, shrugged and leaned over, gathering up the pile and plopping it onto the dryer.

He sorted through each piece of clothing, throwing each into the washer alongside the others, when something stopped him. As he picked up a pair of Joe's sweatpants, a small bag fell out, Connor not even realizing it until he reached back over to pick up a t-shirt.

The t-shirt slowly dropped out of Connor's hand, falling back to the dryer, and he stared at the bag, squinting at it in confusion. It was a clear, plastic bag—the same kind that Heather sometimes packed leftovers in, only, he wasn't so sure these were leftovers in here. It looked...powdery, and red.

Something told Connor he wasn't supposed to be seeing this. Something told him, that that pile of clothes had been there for a reason, that someone had been hiding this.

He could hear his foster parents coming down the hall, talking hurriedly and their footsteps heavy—it sounded like they were coming here. Shit—shit, he needed to put this back, he was going to be in so much trouble when they came in here—

But before he could even think of discarding it, the laundry room door swung open and Joe walked in, still speaking to Heather, who was hot on his heels. Their hurried discussion ended when they spotted Connor, standing there with the bag in his hand, and a stumped expression on his face.

Both adults stared at the boy, Heather's mouth drawing itself into a tight line. She looked away, while Joe looked like he was attempting to swallow down a huge lump in his throat. He reached out, holding out a visibly sweaty hand Connor's way.

"Gimme that." He ordered, Connor blinking at him. Hesitantly, he began to hand the bag over, but it was promptly snatched out of his hand. Joe hastily stuffed it into his pants pocket, and without saying another word, grabbed his wife by the arm and ushered her out of the room.

Connor watched them leave, dumbfounded. What...had just happened? Was he in trouble?

He didn't know.

What he did know, was that whatever he'd just found, hadn't been anything good if Joe had seemed that antsy to get it back from him. He could hear him and Heather talking again, sounding like they were beginning another hushed conversation despite still standing in the hallway. Forgetting about the laundry he hadn't started yet, Connor walked to the room's entrance, standing in the doorway, as in their haste to leave, neither Joe or Heather had bothered to shut the door.

"—what if he says something about it, Joe?"

"He won't, not if he knows what's good for him."

"But—"

"But nothin', I told you, I'm gonna get rid of it. No one has to ever know it was here—"

"What's going on?"

They stopped talking, upon realizing Connor was standing near them. He had no idea what they were talking about, but by now, he was realizing he probably should've remained quiet. The couple exchanged a look, and Joe was walking his way, the expression on his face one of annoyance.

Oh, he was in trouble. He was definitely in trouble, so much trouble.

Out of his own instinct (from having been in this situation far too many times in other homes), Connor took a step back, only to be yanked back forward as Joe grabbed a fistful of his shirt, almost pulling him off his feet.

"Nothing that concerns you, you little shit." The man seethed at him, voice low and... rather rough. His breath was hot, smelling like he hadn't even bothered to brush his teeth that morning, and Connor had to refrain from crinkling his nose at it. "Never you mind what me and Heather were talkin' about, just get back to what you were doing. Understand?"

He nodded. It was the only thing he could do, if he didn't want to be punched in the ribs like he'd been last time he'd gotten in trouble. Thankfully, Joe did not do such a thing this time, and sneered, as Heather had earlier, roughly letting Connor go. His hand still curled into a fist, he pushed the boy back into the laundry room, and he and his wife sauntered out of the hall, probably going back to their room.

Inadvertently, Connor reached up, pressing a hand to chest. His heart was beating fast enough for him to feel it thudding against his hand, hard enough to break a ribcage.

 _Why?_

He wondered why. He'd told himself he was used to being treated this way by now, that it was how he expected to be treated as a foster kid. Even so, no matter how many times he'd been confronted by any of his foster parents...his heart would always run a marathon.

 _But I'm used to it. It doesn't bother me._

He repeated these words in his head, several times, until he was sure his heartbeat had steadied.

 _It doesn't bother me. It can't._

Taking a deep breath, he turned around and went back into the room, this time, shutting the door behind him.

 _I'm supposed to listen to them. I'm supposed to follow their rules. I deserve whatever they do to me._

* * *

When Amelia had told him Ben needed him downtown, that something had happened, Hank had hoped it would be something minor. Something simple, like another robbery, or maybe even some kids causing trouble.

Something. Anything. Other than what he was met with when he pulled up in his car.

A crowd of people, surrounding the alleyway between the laundromat and grocery store. Ben's police car was parked nearby, alongside Chris's car, which had just pulled up. Hank could see Chris jumping out of his car as he drove up and was grateful to see him already attempting to drive away the huge crowd of people. Good. Whatever was going on was probably already bad enough, Hank didn't need an audience around to make it worse.

He parked the car next to the laundromat but took the time to finish off the cup of coffee he'd poured for himself before leaving the station. Amelia had tried to protest his doing this, saying that that was his third cup, but he'd been quick to leave before she'd launched into a full-on sermon.

He crumpled the cup upon finishing, and when he'd stepped out of the car, tossed into a street trashcan. Shoving both his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he made his way over to where he could see Ben had already strung out a long strand of yellow tape, as one usually did, to keep the crowd away from the crime scene. But even with this barrier, they seemed to be insisting on getting as close as possible, even though Chris was doing everything possible to keep them back.

"Everyone—please, stay back. Stay back—no, I'm sorry, I can't let you do that—" His hands were up, and he was shaking his head. As Hank passed him, he glanced back, only managing to greet him with a quick nod before having to turn his attention back to the crowd.

Hank returned the greeting, although Chris's back was turned to him. He almost felt a little bad for the younger officer—he remembered one time where he'd been the one having to steer off the aggravating, gathering crowds. As simpler as those times were, he didn't envy Chris for being the one to do this now. Not at all.

"Hey Sheriff!" He looked over, to see Ben waving him over. "Surprised to see you here already, what happened? Your alarm clock break?"

"Actually, yes..." Hank pinched the bridge of his nose at remembering his altercation with the clock this morning, sighing. "It was a tragic accident, but I'm dealing with it."

"Hah, I'm sure you are." Ben chuckled as Hank started to walk over to him. "I hope you got enough sleep then, you're going to need your strength to deal with this shit."

"What sh—" He stopped speaking, stopped halfway in his trek to join the deputy. His gaze landed upon the object splayed out next to Ben...a body. A dead body, laying in a puddle of its own blood.

Well shit.

No wonder there was a crowd, here. There hadn't been a murder here, not in a long, long time...not since...fuck. Fuck, this wasn't what he'd hoped to deal with today. Ben hadn't been kidding when he said he was going to need all his strength to deal with this, but just looking at this mess was quickly depleting the small amount of energy he had.

God, he was going to need more coffee when he got back to the station.

He almost had to force himself to keep walking over, the scene growing more gruesome as he came closer to it. He could see now, that the blood looked to be pooling from beneath the body's head...this body belonging to a man. It was hard to tell who, exactly, considering that there was what Hank could only figure to be a giant gunshot wound in the middle of the man's face.

He knelt to get a better look, wincing at the grotesque sight. You'd think after being sheriff for five years, he'd be used to seeing this kind of shit, but no, he wasn't. He fucking wasn't. He'd never had to deal with dead bodies, not in a long goddamn time. The last body he'd had to deal with was a victim of a botched robbery, and even then, she'd already been covered up and taken away by the time he'd gotten to the crime scene.

"What...what in the actual goddamn hell...what the fuck is this, Ben?" He looked up in absolute disbelief at the deputy, who was standing by with his arms crossed.

"You tell me, I was just in the store, thinkin' I'd bring in a fresh box of donuts to work today, when suddenly there's a bunch of screaming comin' from outside." Ben huffed, uncrossing his arms. "By the time I get over here, I found this guy, already bleeding out on the concrete."

"You know who it is?"

"Yeah. Couldn't tell just by looking at him, but I found this in his coat." Hank stood up as Ben took out a wallet from his pocket, handing it over to the sheriff to inspect. Hank took it up and opened it up, noticing the driver's license inside, which showed a picture of their victim with his face more intact. The name next to his face read that of "Lonnie Francis", which Hank could've sworn sounded familiar. Hadn't that been the guy he'd hired to tow his car out of the ditch last time there'd been a mudslide in town?

"Lonnie Francis..." He folded the wallet back up, handing it back to Ben. "Hey, isn't he that guy who runs the tow truck business—the one across the street from the diner?"

"That would be him." Ben nodded as he took the wallet back. "But Hank, that isn't even the weirdest part. C'mon."

Ben began to walk away, motioning for Hank to follow him. He wasn't sure he wanted to at first—he hadn't liked the way Ben had told him to "come on", and he was sure that whatever was waiting for him to look at, wasn't anything remotely nice. But because it was his job, he followed, joining the other man over at the dumpster.

"So... what's going on over here? There another body in here something?" he asked dubiously, peering over inside. He looked back up when Ben tapped him on the shoulder, and over to where he was pointing at a small pile of what looked to be a powdery red substance that someone had carelessly spilled and left to be carried away by the wind.

Something entered his mind the moment he saw the substance. A thought, a memory of something he'd hoped he'd never have to see again. Red... powdery, looking like small crystals. He recalled a time, maybe five years ago, when he'd become sheriff and the town had fallen on hard times...he recalled seeing this stuff pop up at nearly every crime scene he'd attended to.

 _Red ice._

A drug.

A very, very harmful and addicting drug—which Lovington had seen an epidemic of for nearly half of that year, and a problem that Hank knew damn well he'd already taken care of. That couldn't be what was happening now, could it?

His mouth was going dry at the very thought...no, that couldn't be it. That just couldn't be it, he'd dealt with this already.

"Yeah, I'm thinkin' the same thing as you..." He hadn't had to say anything before Ben was already speaking to him, and he grunted, taking his hands out of his pockets.

"I wasn't thinkin' anything." He folded his arms, clearing his throat. "And you shouldn't be thinkin' it either, Ben. We can't just assume its red ice, because its red... could just be rust from the dumpster, after all."

"Yeah? I'd think that too if there wasn't more of it on Lonnie's fingertips." Ben nodded towards the corpse on the ground, causing any positive thoughts in Hank's mind to retreat. There went any attempts of trying to convince himself otherwise.

His expression closed up as he glanced towards the corpse, and back towards the substance on the dumpster. Silence. Neither officer said anything to one another, and for a good two minutes, the only voices speaking was that of Chris and the nearby crowd.

"... erm...so, what do you wanna do?"

Ben broke the silence, eyeing Hank with a raised eyebrow. Hank didn't look back to him, his eyes still fixated on the red powder. He could hear the question echoing in his head, but he wasn't quite sure of how to answer—out of everything he'd expected to be called here for today, it certainly hadn't been this. A murder, sure, maybe he could've handled that...but a murder and a suspicious substance, at the same time?

That was something he needed more sleep for. Well, more sleep, and a shit ton more coffee.

"Fuck..." He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, and turned to face Ben. "Just get a damn ambulance over here to take the body away, I'll be waiting at the coroner's office."

"Sure thing." Ben nodded, but Hank didn't stick around long enough to notice or even acknowledge his response. He was already halfway back to his car, his feet picking up the pace at the notice of a news van pulling up. Too much had already happened this morning and it was only 8:34—he just needed to have a moment to himself before things went to hell again. Which meant no reporters, not now. Definitely not now.

He knew the type of questions they were going to ask, and he was not in the mood to answer them. Not until he got an official answer as to what was going on, here...but even then, he wasn't looking forward to answering those questions then, either.

Now back in his car, he was taking out his keys when he noticed a reporter was approaching his vehicle, her microphone extended and her camera man following after her. Hank winced and twisted the keys into the ignition, though it ended up taking a couple of attempts for the engine to start up. Once he could hear its low hum, he took the car out of park and was about to drive away, when he was startled by loud tapping at his window.

He didn't have to look to know the reporter was tapping her microphone on the glass, he could hear her high-pitched voice already trying to ask him questions despite the window being rolled up.

In response, Hank pushed his foot down on the gas pedal, causing the car to roll forward. This seemed to startle her into stepping back, but she was still asking questions. Questions that Hank had already decided he wasn't going to answer.

So, gripping the steering wheel, he made a sharp turn out of his parking spot and into the street, driving away from the reporter, her camera man, and the crime scene altogether.


	3. Chapter 3

Excerpt from a late 2013 edition of the Lovington Gazette, Page 1, Article 2:

" _Red Ice Eradicated; Mayor Praises Expert Work of Sheriff's Department"_

 _Ever since the permanent shutdown of Kullman Mines, which in-turn left many citizens without work, Lovington has faced a troubling problem in the form of a new illegal drug. For several months, a stimulant known only as red ice has made its rounds across town, with many dealers already having been taken into police custody; the Lovington police have in-turn been making great effort to locate the supplier of this frightening new drug, and at long last, it seems as though they have._

 _One of our journalists was able to reach Sheriff Hank Anderson for comment, inquiring as to whether the rumors of the department having located the red ice supplier were true or not. Sheriff Anderson was able to confirm this news, stating that he's confident that the issue has officially been taken care of and is "looking forward to taking some time off", to spend with his family now that the streets appear to be a bit safer._

 _Newly-elected Mayor Finch has come forward and personally thanked the sheriff and his officers for their hard work in ridding Lovington of this problem and has went on to say that he feels that this is a new start for our small town. He feels that it will be "a chance for things to go back to normal, for everyone to start over.", also stating that he plans on finally doing something about the startling lack of unemployment in town, desiring to create new jobs for everyone._

* * *

If Hank could compile a list of five things he hated, waiting would most definitely be at the number two spot on that list. There was maybe only one other thing worse than that, and if that thing wasn't at number one, then waiting would've taken the top spot.

But then again, perhaps hate was too light of a word. People always said it was a strong word, but Hank was sure his dislike of waiting went far beyond it. He wondered—what would the best word be to perfectly describe his dislike...hate...despised...loathed?

 _Loathed._

Yes, that was the right word. He loathed waiting, and he didn't know why. Maybe it was because he was impatient, or maybe it was because of unfortunate circumstances in the past that he'd been waiting in—or maybe he just didn't like the side effects that came with having to wait so long. Maybe it was all three of those things put together.

Whatever the reason was, he'd tried to keep his mind occupied in the hour he'd spent sitting in the coroner's office. He knew he could've just gone back to the station and had the report sent to him then, it's how he'd usually done things when stuff like this happened.

But that was the thing, this sort of thing never happened in Lovington.

Not a murder. Not in a long, long time.

Botched robberies were one thing, as were break-ins, kids on the street causing trouble. Those things, he was accustomed to dealing with. You could always find the person or people responsible and it would be over with, case closed. But in the instance that someone happened upon a dead body, with no signs of who the perpetrator might be—and that dead body also had a strange substance coating its hands?

No, in that instance, the case wouldn't be closed for a very long time.

He tossed the magazine he'd been leafing through back onto the glass table in front of him, sighing as he leaned back in his seat, looking up at the clock to see that it was nearly 10. He doubted the coroner should've taken this long, the cause of death had been pretty obvious and not too hard to miss given the size of the bullet wound on Lonnie's face.

Something told Hank that the only reason the autopsy was taking so long was because the coroner had found something. Something bad, and horrid. Something that would no doubt solidify the worries forming in his mind.

He'd told Ben not to think about it, told himself not to think about it—but that was easier said than done. He was sure he'd gone through most of the magazines in here by now and had not finished any of them. His focus was all over the place, had been since he'd left the crime scene. Several times had he tried to force his thoughts elsewhere, but each time, they'd go back to the same, two words.

Red ice.

Red _fuckin'_ ice.

Of all the damn things...he wished he could believe it'd just been rust on that dumpster, but why would there be rust on Lonnie's fingers?

Better yet, if it truly was red ice—what was _it_ doing on _Lonnie's_ fingers?

It just didn't add up. Sure, Hank hadn't known Lonnie all that well, but he'd seemed like such a friendly person. He was one of the people in the Kullman Mines rescue party, had been the one who'd suggested the candlelight vigil for the fallen workers and volunteers. When a hurricane had blown through the town and left several people's cars in the ditches, he'd been out until 3:00 AM helping to tow them out—and he didn't even charge anyone for it. Hell, he would also dress up as Santa during the annual Christmas parade—and he'd willingly let the kids take pictures with him afterwards.

Yes, he hadn't known him like a true friend. But he'd known enough about him to know that he'd been an upstanding citizen, a charitable person, and just an all-around good guy. And with that said, what could've possibly lead him down a dark alleyway, only to get killed in a possible drug deal-gone-wrong?

Hank really didn't want to think about it. As a person, he felt that he was better off not knowing anything—but as sheriff, he knew that this job often came with the nasty perks of having to arrest people you once considered friends and family. And that often meant having to learn about entirely new sides of them, sides you never knew about, and sides that you especially wished you never knew about.

He'd learned that the very, very hard way during that first year as sheriff. As soon as the mines had shut down, and after the one re-opening attempt had basically deemed them as "unsafe", it was like someone had poisoned the town's water supply. Anyone and everyone was doing whatever they could to make money—and a lot of that involved a lot of robberies, and far more drug dealing than Hank cared to remember.

That whole, entire year, had been the equivalent of "The Crazies".

It was amazing to think that it had started out with so much promise; the month before the incident, and the month before Jeffrey had revealed his intentions to retire, Hank had been offered another job. Another department, a more professional department with better equipment, somewhere in the city—he would've been working with the best in the force.

Hah. And to think, he'd turned it down all because he wanted a shot at taking care of his town...hilarious. Sometimes, he wished he hadn't let his loyalty blind him so much. Sometimes, he wished he'd listened to his ex, and had actually accepted that offer.

She'd wanted him to. Had always nagged him about wanting to leave town, especially after she was nearly robbed at gunpoint. She was always telling him that it wasn't safe here anymore, not safe for Cole, not safe for their family. But things had been too hectic—Hank hadn't wanted to leave, not when the town was in the middle of a drug crisis.

He wanted to stay, all because he wasn't ready to give up yet.

He'd had a determination back then. And, he supposed that determination might've helped—by late November of that year, the department had managed to locate the source of the red ice and the problem had been solved, or so they'd thought. Hank had thought this for the past five years, content to deal with the usual daily problems that Lovington had to offer and count the days until his retirement.

Then this morning had happened. He'd gone to a crime scene, and there was a dead body. A dead body with traces of red ice on it—no, not yet. He didn't know that yet. He was still trying to convince himself it was anything but that, but even he wasn't fooled by his brain's desperation.

"Sheriff?"

He looked up, over at the secretary, who was seated nearby.

"Dr. Foreman's finished with the autopsy, if you'd like to go back now."

He looked away from her, back at the clock. Huh, 10:06. And here he was thinking he was going to be sitting there for another thirty minutes.

Placing his hands on the arm rests, Hank grunted and pushed himself up, taking a moment to let his legs wake up before he walked out of the waiting room and down the hall, and through the wide pair of doors that led him into the most depressing room he'd ever seen in his whole life next to his own. It was cold, dimly lit, and extremely dreary—smelling like bleach and other chemicals, all of which made his nostrils ache. He briefly glanced down at the cadaver on the table, which was covered up to the chest by a long, blue sheet.

Now that most of the blood seemed to have been cleaned off Lonnie's face, he was slightly more recognizable than he had been earlier; but that bullet had left a sizeable imprint where his left eye should've been. Hank hadn't even noticed, not until he'd regrettably leaned a bit closer to get a better look.

"Jesus Christ, Lonnie, what happened to ya..."

"Not a pretty sight, huh?" He looked back up as Dr. Foreman approached the table, carrying with her a small petri dish. She placed it on the table, sighing. "I wish I could say I was used to seeing this shit...you know, after spending so many years in this job. But it never gets any easier when it keeps being someone you know."

"Yeah, I get that..." Hank huffed, crossing his arms as he took a step back. Of course, he got that, he understood it all too well. "Man, and you know, a lot of people liked Lonnie. No one played a more convincing Santa than he did."

"Oh, that's true." Dr. Foreman laughed softly as she picked up her clipboard, quickly crossing something off with her pen before she sat it back down. "His performance is going to be missed, that's for sure. I just pity whoever has to go tell his wife what happened."

"Well you should pity Chris, then. Because I'm pretty sure he's still over there, even now." Hank harshly chuckled, shaking his head. "You know how Beverly is—she and Mrs. Kowalski could have a competition for the most dramatic old lady in town."

He didn't envy the other officer at all—first having to be called back home, then back out to deal with a nosey crowd, and then having to inform a kindly old woman that her husband was dead, was not his idea of starting the day. He'd have done it himself, and not that he didn't care to offer his condolences, but he'd had other pressing issues to deal with for the time being.

"All too aware, I'm afraid. Which is why I'm even hesitant to mention this..." Dr. Foreman picked up the petri dish, which Hank could see contained the supposed red ice. "I don't think she's going to be very happy when she finds out what Lonnie was up to in his spare time."

The wall he'd been trying to construct over his worries for the past hour crumbled at her words. He grimaced, his shoulders drooping.

"Don't tell me. It's not rust."

"No. I'm sorry, Hank." The doctor pressed her lips together, looking as if she were attempting to bite back a frown. She'd clearly wanted to give him better news, better than what she'd just told him. Giving no response, Hank turned his back, arms still folded, jaw tightening. His mind was going through a hundred different possible responses, and reactions at this moment, but he couldn't bring himself to utter any of them.

He didn't know what he'd expected to hear. He didn't know why he'd expected good news after all the crap that had occurred in his life. Why would the universe decide to let up on him now when it still had so much shit to offer?

"...are you sure? I mean..." His voice came out tighter than he'd wanted it to, and he clenched his mouth shut. He could sense the doctor was nodding her head, he didn't have to look at her to know that.

"Positive. I ran at least five different tests, and they all came back with the same result." A clack. She was setting the dish back onto the table. "Odd thing is, though, I didn't find any traces of it in Lonnie's system, except for the residue leftover on his fingers."

"Okay, really? Then what the hell was he doing?" Hank gasped out of annoyance, unfolding his arms as he turned back around. "Dusting cookies with it? Please, Carol, just because he didn't have any in his system doesn't mean he wasn't going to just ingest it later, fuck..."

He stopped, grabbing a handful of his hair in frustration and raking his fingers through it, as he inhaled, rather roughly.

"That just...that just doesn't seem like Lonnie. Shit..." He released his hair, running his hand down his face. "God, I don't know how Beverly is going to handle hearing this..."

"Not well, I'll go ahead and say that much." Dr. Foreman said, shrugging. There was a heavy pause in the room, before she spoke again—though she sounded very hesitant. "What about you, Hank? How are you going to handle it?"

Handle it? Wait—oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

He knew now. She wasn't asking how he was going to handle Lonnie being a possible drug user, or how they were going to tell Beverly that news, either. She was asking him how he was going to handle the possibility of red ice being back in town.

 _Did he know?_

"Well...fuck, what do you want me to say, Carol?" He spread his arms apart, a scowl on his face. "How am I supposed to know how to handle this thing, it's not like it's another outbreak or anything. Is that what you're suggesting it is?"

"I don't want to suggest anything, but I'm just saying you should be prepared—"

"Prepared, my ass. We already dealt with this shit five years ago, I'm not about to go through it a second time." His arms dropped back to his side as he curtly interrupted her, voice loud enough to rattle the thin walls of the room. "We got the guy who was makin' the stuff—shit, how could they be making it again..."

He bitterly laughed, shaking his head.

"Fuckin' hell, this is not how I wanted to begin my week..."

Before Dr. Foreman could say anything else, he shoved the wide pair of doors open and walked out of the room, feet heavy, and hitting hard against the tiled floor. He needed to get out of here before he ended up knocking something over—or worse, breaking something. There were no remains of the wall he'd been building left in his head—it was all gone, and the only thing there was now was the blaring reality that that supposed red ice was no longer supposed.

It was the real deal, and there was a good chance he was about to relive the worst year of his life all over again.

* * *

Unlike this morning when he'd shown up, there were quite a few cars parked in front of the sheriff's department when Hank got back. He pulled his car to a stop, taking a moment to inhale. Perhaps it was a rude thought for him to have, but he'd secretly been hoping everyone would've been out tending to calls, or some other form of police business that didn't involve being here.

He waited a minute longer, hoping to see someone run out from the building, and to their car. Maybe Mrs. Kowalski would call again, maybe needing her medicine picked up from the pharmacy this time—or maybe someone would need help getting their Christmas lights set up. True, it was early November, but the last time he'd gone to the store, he'd already seen a sickening number of Christmas-related items littering the shelves—and just the other day, he'd driven past a house completely decked out in lights and inflatable snowmen.

Hank found it ridiculous, really, it was like everyone just had Christmas stuff set aside in their living rooms, ready to spring them out the very minute Halloween was over. Was the town so bad off that they'd rather skip over Thanksgiving and go straight to a holiday that was going to put them in even more debt than they were already in?

Well...probably. After all, what did they have to be thankful for?

In the minutes that he'd waited, Hank started to realize his hope of having to delay breaking the red ice news to the other officers was a foolish hope, and that no one was likely to step out to tend to any calls right now, provided that there weren't any to currently tend to.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he sighed, parking his car into a close parking spot. It was just his luck, wasn't it? It just had to be his fucking luck that no one had any calls to tend to, not when he had important news he'd rather delay telling them. It wasn't that he wanted to purposefully delay serious news like this, everyone knew where he'd been, and they would want to know what was going on, what had happened to Lonnie...but he knew that the minute he mentioned the words "red ice", things were going to go downhill very fast.

He'd have to choose his words carefully should he want to avoid such a thing...which he did want to do.

When he finally decided to get out of the car, another five minutes had already passed in the time he'd been willing to himself to go inside. It was just as cold a walk as his earlier trek to the department, and just as warm when he walked in—but less inviting this time.

Somehow, this place always seemed more welcoming with less people in it, and unlike this morning, nearly all his deputies were here now. He could see Ben engaged in conversation with Amelia, talking far too casually for someone who had just seen a dead body earlier. Gavin had taken his usual place next to the coffee machine, bearing with him his prized sarcastic coffee mug, as he spoke to another officer, Tina Chen, who was standing next to him. It didn't look like Chris was anywhere to be found, but Hank wouldn't be surprised if he was still over at the Francis place, trying to console Beverly.

He still didn't envy him for having to do that. Not in the slightest.

It'd been a long time since he'd had to try consoling someone himself, but it was never a fun task. Especially last time, when the person he'd had to try, and console was his ex, after...after _that_ had happened. After that, he'd sworn off trying to comfort anyone anymore. No, he wasn't heartless, but it just wasn't something he'd taken a luxury in since then.

The conversations continued, as Hank pushed open the glass doors and stepped into the room. Ben looked over at him, briefly, to nod a hello, before going back to his conversation with Amelia. Hank nodded back at him, immediately making his way over to the coffee machine. Gavin didn't look like he'd be leaving it anytime soon, but he didn't care—he needed another cup, so he'd just have to make the unpleasant sacrifice of having to exchange words with this asshole all for the chance to secure more coffee.

Of course, Gavin was already shooting a rather impish look his way as he approached. He exchanged this look with Tina, as Hank picked up one of the styrofoam cups to fill.

"Well, Lee, what do we have here? Looks like the sheriff walking in several hours late, again." he sniggered, taking a swig from his own mug. Hank's grip on the coffee pot tightened at Gavin's remark, teeth clenching together.

 _God if you're up there, give me strength. Because I sure as hell don't have it in me._

"Christ, Gavin, I already told you he was here earlier. Lay off him." Amelia scolded from nearby at her desk, only causing Gavin to snort at her.

"Oh yeah, I know. You told me, but I thought you were just kidding around." He looked back over to Hank, from above his mug, as he once again raised it to take another sip. "But I'm just saying, it's one of those things you have to see to believe or else...hah, you aren't gonna believe it. Know what I mean?"

By now, Hank had finished pouring his coffee, and at Gavin's words, set the pot down with more force than he'd intended to; causing a bit of hot coffee to splash out. He jerked his head towards his least favorite deputy, glaring. Eyes darting down briefly, he spotted a rather large band-aid strapped across his hand—letting him know that the encounter with Mrs. Kowalski's beloved canine hadn't gone as well as he'd led other people to believe it had.

"Well, Deputy Reed, I'll tell ya something else you have to see to believe—" His glare softened, as he cracked a vengeful smirk at the other man. "You actually managing to catch Mrs. Kowalski's dog without lettin' it bite you, for once. That's somethin' I'd pay good money to see."

The impish look on Gavin's face wilted, and even Tina looked like she was stifling a laugh. He looked down to his hand, and coughed, shoving it into the pocket of his jacket.

"Fuckin' dog... had to chase it across the entire neighborhood..." he muttered. "Yeah, I'd like to see you try and avoid that thing biting you, fuckin' thing almost bit my damn hand off."

"Hm, yeah. You sure he wasn't trying to aim for your neck?" Amelia chimed in from nearby, Tina failing to keep her laugh stifled this time. Gavin grumbled and moved back over to his desk, taking an angry sip out of his mug, muttering under his breath the whole time. And while this exchange had amused Hank, it did little to quell the thoughts running amok in his head. Given that he was fresh off of insulting one of his deputies, and that Chris wasn't here, he could use those things as an excuse to delay telling.

After all, he didn't want to be repeating things later. He'd prefer everyone be here, and present, and in a good mood—okay, the good mood thing might be a bit of a stretch, but he at least preferred Chris be here before he said anything. That way, he could just get it done and over with.

He finished fixing up as his coffee as Ben neared him, and he could sense the question that was oncoming- _"So what happened at the coroner's office, Hank?"—_ and right as the other man opened his mouth to speak, Hank held up a hand, which then transitioned to just his finger, as he took a large swig from his cup.

"Ben, I just got back. Give me a couple minutes, will ya?"

Ben closed his mouth, taken aback, but nodded anyways. Hank turned away from him and went into his office, shutting the open door behind him. It was a sweet relief to finally be alone—not a relief that it had to be in this room, but it was better than nothing. He decided against sitting down, considering Chris could very well return in the next couple of minutes and it'd just be better to not put anymore strain on that old chair for the time being.

Though, this time alone did give him some time to decide how he was going to word his news. He knew he had to be careful, that much he could manage...he had to be calm, which raised some trouble. How the fuck was he supposed to be calm, when a problem he thought he had taken care of years ago was threatening to come back and bite him in the ass?

Styrofoam crunched as he clutched his cup, unintentionally, a bit tighter. He wished he'd decided to sit down, because now he'd taken to looking straight at a newspaper clipping that was framed next to a photograph of the department staff.

" _Red Ice Eradicated; Mayor Praises Expert Work of Sheriff's Department"_

He took a step closer towards it, surveying the five-year old clipping and the picture accompanying it. A photo of Hank, years younger and years healthier, standing next to the then-newly elected mayor, both with huge smiles on their faces as they shook hands. Viewing it made a smile appear, but it wasn't anything close to a fond one.

Another day, and another event that he could remember clearly. And not one that he remembered kindly, either.

That photo had been taken before a news reporter had ran up to ask the other man some questions. He'd been standing right there, maintaining a pleasant smile, all while Mayor Finch had fed his lies of restoring the town to the young woman interviewing him. He'd remembered being hopeful then, thinking he'd help to vote in the right man for the job. Someone who could help turn things around and get this town back on its feet.

He should've known it was too good to be true. He knew he should've seen right through it, smelled the bullshit in the mayor's voice. But he'd been hoping, for oh so long, that someone besides _him_ would want to do something. Hm, fat lot of good that hope had done him. They were right back to square one—a drug threat looming on the horizon, jobs practically non-existent, and a mayor that couldn't give two craps about the town.

A pair of loud voices stirred him away from looking at the clipping, voices which he knew for a fact belonged to Gavin and Chris. He almost wanted to roll his eyes, but instead, took one more drink of his coffee and sat the cup down on his desk, before rushing out to see what was going on.

As he'd expected, Gavin was reclined back in his chair, with his usual shit-eating expression, while Chris stood next to him, glowering.

"You need to find a better hobby than picking on everyone for being late all the time, Gavin. You're not exactly punctual yourself."

"Sure, but I'm more punctual than you."

"Oh, come on, you try being punctual when you have a one month old at home with colic, get back to me then." Chris took a step back from the desk, scowling. "Not to mention, that I also had to tell a nice old woman that her husband was dead, so I'm sorry if I wanted to be a decent person and stick around to console her."

"Bite my ass, Chris—"

"Hey, you two! Knock it off!" Like two kids who'd just been caught at the cookie jar, Gavin and Chris immediately fell silent as Hank stomped over to them, like the parent who had caught them in the act. "I swear I leave the room for one minute and you lot transform into fuckin' toddlers! Now what the fuck is going on?"

He didn't expect Gavin to answer or take the blame, for whatever this argument was about. And he didn't, instead, he looked like he was waiting for Chris to answer for him. He only swayed in his chair, keeping his eyes trained on the ground instead. Chris looked at him and looked back to Hank. He folded his hands behind his back, sullenly.

"It... was my fault, sir. Deputy Reed said something I didn't agree with and I guess...I kinda lost it for a minute." He scuffed his foot against the ground, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

Hank eyed him, brows furrowed together. He didn't buy Chris's apology at all. In the short time that he'd been working in this department, he'd proven himself to be quite the capable deputy—mainly keeping to himself and focusing on his work. And of course, this made him an easy target for Gavin to pick on—naturally, he never admitted that any of these arguments were his fault, and it would probably not be the last time he walked in on one of these things.

Regardless, all he could do was accept the apology. Even if it wasn't needed from him.

"Okay, yeah. You better make sure it doesn't." He turned around, placing his hands on his hips. Everyone had seemed to be looking in on the whole discussion and were still very much in-tune to it, which he'd normally be annoyed at, but given that he had another announcement to make, it was convenient that they were already paying attention.

"And that goes for the rest of ya...things are going to be getting rough around here, pretty soon. I don't want anyone buttin' heads, got it?"

They all nodded, although Amelia was quick to speak up. She stood up from her seat, brows raised in confusion.

"When you say things are going to be getting rough...what did you mean by that?"

"That's what I'd like to know too." Ben agreed, setting down the file he'd been probably been looking at before the argument had broken out. "Does it have something to do with what happened to Lonnie? What did Dr. Foreman say?"

"Well, I think his cause of death was pretty fuckin' obvious, Ben. She really didn't have too much to say on that." Hank narrowed his eyes, sighing. "And I doubt Beverly's gonna be wanting an open casket once she gets a chance to look at him. The whole damn right side of his face looks like it caved in on itself."

No one had anything to say about that, but the bothered looks on their faces almost made him not want to continue. Even Gavin looked a little perturbed, which in itself was a rarity. But, as it went, they were all looking right at him, so he really had no other choice but to keep going.

 _Just get it over with. Just say what's going, stay calm. Stay calm._

"Nah..." He ducked his head down, quickly jamming his hands into his pants pockets upon realizing how clammy they felt. "Nah, his cause of death wasn't what Dr. Foreman had to talk to me about."

He looked back up at all of them, trying his best to manage a level expression despite the racing in his mind and body. He wanted to just spit his next words out, but he knew that, unless he wanted to avoid repeating himself, he had to say them as loudly and steadily as possible. This wasn't the first time he'd had to make this kind of announcement...although he'd hoped the first time was the last time, that he'd ever have to say words like these.

And even when he managed to say them out loud, it felt as though he had choked them out.

"She found traces of red ice on his body."


	4. Chapter 4

By 5:00 in the evening, the Phelps house was almost always filled with the same types of odors. Some nights it was meatballs, other nights it was pizza—but either way, an aroma of takeout food would stain whatever room it had been placed in and would likely not be fading out until the next day. Even then, Connor could've still sworn that the kitchen table still smelled like the burritos and nachos they'd eaten for dinner the previous week, and maybe even a tint of the waffles from this morning were there as well.

But tonight, those smells would more than likely be replaced by the Chinese food that was currently scattered about the table. Though, scattered could be a slight misconception—nah, every single box of food and plastic bag had been ripped open and apart, some tipped over, few standing. It nearly resembled a crime scene now.

And even though Heather had told him to set the table, Connor could see that many of his foster siblings didn't seem to care at all for using a plate or cutlery. Most of them had grabbed the food up with their hands and were shoving it into their mouths, noodles and sauce dripping out from their fingers onto the table. Most of the food was gone, and the only thing that looked to be left was one lone wonton that had managed to survive the onslaught of grabby and grubby hands.

Connor's own plate looked like it had barely been touched, other than some pieces of food that appeared to have been nibbled on. He was out of tune with his surroundings, head resting against his propped-up hand as he just continued to poke at a dumpling with one of his chopsticks. He couldn't will himself to pick it up, nor take a bite...his stomach was recoiling at the very thought of having to do so.

He just wasn't sure how Joe and Heather could consider this, or any of the other takeout they'd had a good meal; he could only figure they thought it was an easy way to give the kids a meal, and get them out their hair for an hour while they ate their own meals in the living room, watching whatever game show was on the television. Well, at least, Heather was doing that—Joe had left a few minutes ago, talking on his cellphone.

Him having to spend so many evenings like this, and so many evenings having had to consume one greasy meal after another, was beginning to put a damper on Connor's appetite. He was sure he would vomit if he had to take one more bite of this crap, and he had once—which had landed him in hot water with both his foster parents. In fact, he was pretty sure they still hadn't managed to get that stain out of the carpet and had resorted to instead covering it up with a rug.

Because heaven forbid they spend any of their money on actually putting in effort to make this place look decent. Clearly that money was for spending on copious amounts of takeout food and whatever other shit they felt like buying for themselves. Maybe they'd buy the kids a few things, if they knew the social worker was coming to pay a visit, but that was only to save their own asses.

They just wanted to look good, so they could keep getting the checks every month. That's all they cared about, despite never having said it out loud; and this wasn't even the first time Connor had been in a home where his guardians cared more about the money they got than the children. He supposed he had to give Joe and Heather some credit, at least they didn't make him sleep on the couch.

But even then, the couch sounded more comfortable than having to fight for a bed every night. Maybe they didn't deserve _that_ much credit.

"Connor?" He startled, nearly stabbing into the dumpling he'd been playing with. He turned his head up, seeing Heather standing next to him, gathering dirty plates up from the table. She jutted out her chin, gesturing at his full plate of food.

"What's with the full plate? You know how we feel about leftovers in this house."

Connor stared at her, blinking, before turning his head back to his food. He pressed his lips together, tapping the plate with his chopstick, and looked back up.

"I... guess I'm not hungry..."

 _Lie._

No, it wasn't.

 _That was a lie, Connor. You aren't supposed to lie. That's not what you were taught to do._

No, it wasn't. He wasn't lying—he really didn't feel all that hungry. At least, not for this food.

"Oh, that's it? _You guess_?" Heather's face scrunched, as her voice took on a mocking tone. When Connor's only response was to look at her blankly, she sighed and finished scooping up a lot of the trash from the table and pushed the stack of plates his way.

"Okay, you know what? Fine." She stuffed the trash into a plastic bag, tying it shut. "At least help me clean up, if you're going to be that way. The rest of you, go play."

As she stomped away with the bag of trash in hand and the rest of the kids dispersed from the table, Connor observed the plates she'd shoved his way. From what he could see, most of these weren't even dirty...given that most of his foster siblings had elected to using the table as their plate instead. He saw more sauce stains on the wood than the actual plates, but regardless, knew that he was still doomed to wash these dishes anyways—not that he didn't mind having to do so, it was just the fact that the only dishes that even looked remotely dirty were his, Heather's, and Joe's.

Maybe he could just shove them in the dishwasher, Heather wouldn't even care if he did.

But as he was about to do this, suddenly remember the dishwasher had been broken for nigh onto two weeks now, so he instead moved to instead setting the stack of dishes down on the kitchen counter. He scraped the bits of food from his own plate into the trashcan, which thankfully looked like Heather had bothered to empty it (as it'd accumulated a nice heap of trash over the past day), and picked the stack back up, heading over to the sink that was dismayingly full of dishes from breakfast and lunch.

Well...it looked he was going to be here awhile.

There was a temptation to go back to the boys' room and retrieve his mp3 player from the dresser—but he had to remind himself that it technically wasn't _his_ mp3 player, and that Heather had banned him from listening to it for the rest of the day after she'd caught him listening to it that morning. He supposed he'd just have to deal with the background noise for the night and pray that the television would hopefully drown out anything annoying.

Taking a moment to first scratch at a small itch on his eye, Connor sighed, then turned on the water faucets. Rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he poured some dish soap on a sponge (that wasn't quite clean itself, but was the only thing to clean with), and picked up a plate to scrub at. The back door opened as he did so, and Heather walked back in from presumably having taken the trash out.

She only briefly eyed what Connor was up to, and once she'd seemed satisfied, walked away and started to peruse the cabinets for something. Taking out a small bag of cat food, she went to filling up the small food bowl by the door, which in-turn summoned the cat whose tail had been so cruelly stomped upon by Connor earlier.

It started to nibble at is food, as Joe walked into the kitchen, uttering some words into his cellphone before hanging up and shoving the small device into his back pants pocket. He exhaled, running a hand through his greasy, unkempt hair, and took a seat at the kitchen table, which Heather had just begun to wipe down with a wet paper towel.

"God, what a day..." He muttered, releasing a fistful of his hair, then covered his eyes with a hand, rubbing circles into his temples. "I think I've got a migraine comin' on..."

The loud smack his hand gave off as he let it drop onto the table nearly startled Connor into dropping the glass he was rinsing off, but he stiffened and continued, but attempted a more careful grab of the next plate in the sink. Joe always complained about the noises the dishes made when they were picked up—like anyone could control that, they were all so stacked up on one another it was nearly impossible to pick one up without causing the others to crash.

"Hey...hey! Heather!" He could hear Joe giving off a whistle, turning his head back only to realize that the man was talking to Heather, and quickly went back to the dishes, swallowing hard. "I need a beer, grab me one, will ya?"

"Grab it yourself. I'm busy." Heather dryly snapped, dropping the dirty paper towel she'd been using into the trash can. Joe's brows snapped together at her abrupt reply—clearly that hadn't been the response he was expecting, given that his wife was usually so compliant to his requests. Or, more like, he _expected_ people to be compliant to his requests, so when someone wasn't, it could catch him off guard, and very visibly too. This was one of the first things Connor had learned about him when he first came to live here.

And he also knew, that when Heather wasn't compliant with Joe's request, that he was destined to be the next person asked. He could already feel Joe's eyes on him, without looking behind him, but tried his best not to let his body language give that away, merely continuing to scrub off the fork he'd picked up.

"Hey Connor—" _Whoop, there it was. That hadn't taken long._ "Since your mom's being a bitch, can you grab me a beer instead?"

Resisting the urge to give a sarcastic reply, Connor heaved a small sigh out.

"Yes, Joe."

Setting the fork down with the others that he'd left drying on a dish towel, he padded over to the fridge pulling out one lone beer can out from the shelf. He hadn't quite noticed the heavy dent on the can until he was already handing it to Joe, who in-turn made a face of bemusement at the sight.

"What the fuck is this?" He turned the can over his hand, scoffing, and smacked Connor in the back of his head, nearly causing him to stumble. "What the hell are you bringin' me a dented can for, kid?"

"It—it was the only one left." He brought his hands together, tugging at his thumb as he mumbled out his words. "I'm sorry, I didn't notice."

"Whatever. Just get away from me." Another smack on the back of his head, and Connor was nearly stumbling again as he turned to go back to the sink. A "watch it, you shit" from Heather as she passed him with the broom nearly made him step on the poor cat's tail again, and he had to grab onto the kitchen counter to keep from falling over.

Closing his eyes, he forced down the lump in his throat, shaking his head, then went back to picking up another plate to wash.

He'd been at fault. He had no reason to be upset. Joe had had every right to be upset with him, it was his own fault.

 _Was grabbing a dented can really your fault though, Connor?_

Yes, yes it had been. He should've looked first and told Joe the only can left was dented. At least then, he wouldn't have been hit for it. There wasn't any reason for him to lament on this, and besides, lamenting on this wasn't even his current priority—he had to get these dishes finished, and then maybe, he could convince Heather to let him have the mp3 player back, and he could go back to his room and try his coin trick again before he had to ready himself for the bed battle.

"—yeah it's going to be taken care of, I fuckin' told you it would be." His ears perked up as they caught on to the apparent conversation Joe had started with Heather whilst he'd been mentally berating himself. "We won't have anything to worry about, I've got it all handled."

 _Got what handled?_

"Yeah, but—after this morning? Word is already spreading, Joe, I'm not—"

"And? Word can continue to spread, there's no way the police are going to track that shit back to me."

 _Police?_

 _Track...what back to him?_

No, he shouldn't be listening. This wasn't any of his business, nothing they were saying were things he should be paying attention to. He'd been taught, routinely, back at the group house, that eavesdropping was a bad thing, and anyone who did it deserved to have their ears boxed.

But then again, it wasn't exactly easy to _not_ eavesdrop in cases like this, especially when, despite their hushed voices, both people were within earshot of him.

Though, to be fair, they probably thought he wasn't paying attention. And he didn't want to, he tried to ignore them as he rinsed off the last few plates. However, a small seed of thought insisted on pushing itself into his brain the more Joe and Heather's conversation continued—prompting him to remember both the adults' odd behavior towards him earlier, after they'd found him with the bag full of red stuff in the laundry room.

He'd tried not to think about it for the rest of the day, but it was coming back now. It was possible, that what they were talking about now, was related to that earlier incident...no, he had to stop. He couldn't think anymore on this, it wasn't right. It wasn't his business.

"—if this deal goes wrong, the police are going to start suspectin' something. You can't go back out there, again."

"I wasn't planning on it, but thanks. I'm glad you have so much faith in me." His fingers scratched at the cup he was holding at the way Joe was nearly hissing his words out. Why did they have to be talking now, did they really think he wasn't paying attention? They had to be, they weren't bright people, but they never talked about serious topics around any of the kids, let alone Connor.

"Then how—"

Shushing. He was shushing Heather now, causing Connor's blood to go cool. He was starting to get that feeling again, like when Joe had looked at him before asking him to get his beer. Somehow, he always knew when people were looking at him, even when his back was turned. He could just sense it, like he could sense their eyes on him now.

This _had_ to be related to what had happened earlier. Why else would they be looking at him?

He sat the cup next to the others, quickly snatching an oval platter up as the sounds of chairs scratching back on the kitchen tile sounded off, implying that both Joe and Heather had gotten up from their seats. Only one pair of footsteps neared him, however, and the hot breath wafting his way suggested that it was not Heather who was standing next to him.

"Hey uh, Connor?" Connor kept his eyes trained on the platter as he scrubbed at it, not even bothering to look Joe's way. "Care to do your old man a favor?"

He didn't stop scrubbing, still not caring to look the man's way. He didn't respond either, feeling a sense of dread creep up his spine. There was something...ugly in Joe's voice, the voice that he always used when he wanted something from someone. Another thing that he'd learned was a staple of the Phelps house, during his first day there. He was all accustomed to it, by this point.

"Kid...hey, I'm talking to you!" The platter slipped out of Connor's hands as Joe roughly grabbed him by the shoulders to spin him around, shattering into a thousand pieces the minute it hit the floor. A loud gasp sounded from Heather, who jolted from her spot at the table upon witnessing this.

"You shit! That platter was a gift from my mother!" she shrieked, a clenched fist raised in the air as she stormed over but was stopped by Joe who held his arm out in front of her. She begrudgingly stepped back, clenching her jaw shut as her arm fell to her side, not before raising it back up to jab a finger Connor's way.

"I'm takin' that out of the check this month..." she hissed at him, through gritted teeth. Her finger was swatted back by Joe, who gave her a sour look. When she'd quieted, he turned back to Connor, who was stooping down to gather the broken pieces off the ground. He hadn't been asked to yet, but he figured he might as well—Heather had been ready to smack him for dropping it, and he still had no idea what it was Joe wanted to talk to him about.

He might leave, if he saw Connor doing this. He might decide Connor was already too busy to be bothered and just go out to the living room to wait for him then. He wouldn't mind that—he didn't particularly care to hear whatever he had to say. If it really had anything to do with it the laundry room incident earlier...it couldn't be good. It couldn't be anything good.

But, because luck and favor alike seemed to hate him, Joe didn't leave, and he didn't look like he was going to wait. He'd grabbed Connor by the back of his shirt, and yanked him back up on his feet, pushing him back against the kitchen counter.

"Hey, no, you worry about that later—I've got somethin' more important for you to do." He stepped back, shoving a hand into his pocket, rummaging around for a minute. Connor allowed himself a momentary glance but couldn't exactly tell what it was that Joe was trying to retrieve...though, he had a pretty good idea of what it might be.

"Now Joe, wait a minute—" Heather started, grabbing her husband by the arm, only to have him shrug her off him. He went back to rummaging in his pocket, pulling out the very same bag that Connor had discovered in the laundry pile.

"Recognize this? You found itin my laundry this morning..." He dangled the bag in front of Connor's face, a lackluster, tight smile on his lips. Like he was almost daring him to respond...to which he was about to, when Joe tossed the bag onto the counter next to him, grabbing him by the arm when he dared to look back at it.

"I had it hidden for a reason, you know." He seethed, pulling the boy close to him. "So nosey little bitches like you wouldn't find them."

"Joe, I—" Connor attempted to slip his arm free from Joe's hold, but unfortunately it was about as tight as vice. This only earned him another shove, back into the counter again.

"But, of course. I forget—you're Mr. Goody Two shoes, you have to do everything right, don't you?" Joe sneered as he stepped back, brandishing his fists. Connor noticed, and could feel his heart beginning to gallop; even if he had been through this type of scenario before, even if he said he was used to it, he still couldn't prevent himself from becoming nervous at the sight of a fist. Especially if that fist belonged to Joe Phelps, whose hands he could've sworn were made of solid iron.

He was able to calm somewhat, though, when he saw that Joe's fists had unfurled.

"Then again, I was planning on having that shit out of the house before you found it..." he muttered, scratching at the back of his head, once more forking his fingers through his hair as he spoke. "Fuck...before any of you kids found it, really..."

An uncomfortable silence filled the kitchen as Joe stopped talking. Connor swallowed hard, clasping his hands behind him, fingers intertwining.

"...because it's illegal? Isn't it?"

 _Why did you say that?_

 _Why did you ask that?_

He didn't know why. He didn't know why he had asked that, but it seemed like the only logical question. With how sketchy he'd seemed when he'd retrieved the bag from Connor, and how shady he'd been acting the entire day—constantly disappearing to talk on the phone and having hushed conversations with Heather, it was quite easy for Connor to put two and two together.

He'd seen this kind of behavior before, back at the group house, when one of the older girls had been caught with a stash of speed underneath her mattress. She'd tried to say it wasn't hers, pinning the blame on some other girl for putting them there—but ended up being caught in the act of using them and was subsequently punished.

Only, he wasn't so sure in this case, what it was that Joe had, or if he cared about the fact that it was illegal or not. The red stuff in the bag was nothing he recognized, but then, he also hadn't seen many drugs. It was something he'd always been taught was bad, and he'd made it a goal to stay from them as much as he could.

"Yeah, no shit its illegal! Why the fuck do you think I was hidin' it?" Joe harshly chortled, as Heather continued to stand next to him with her arms tightly folded against her chest. Her mouth was pressed together, like she was trying her hardest to keep from talking again.

"And, you know—" He reached his hand out past Connor, grabbing the bag back from where he'd tossed it on the counter. "You know that Ms. Stern is comin' for a visit tomorrow, and I don't plan on re-hiding this stuff just for her to find it again. Or for you to just up and tell her about it, you get what I'm trying to say?"

Yeah, he got what he was trying to say. He was wanting him to lie straight to his caseworker's face, say that he never found any drugs, and spend another month in this house—whereas if he told the truth, he'd be taken back to the group home and spend another six months there before another family decided they wanted him.

Not much of a choice there, really.

He yearned to say all this out loud but knew that it was against his better judgement. He'd been taught to never talk back, to respect his elders no matter what.

 _But he'd also been told not to lie._

 _Not ever._

Biting back the words that he wanted to say, Connor nodded instead.

"I understand, Joe. But..." He unclasped his hands halfway, wrapping one thumb around the other. "What does this have to do with doing you a favor?"

This was what he'd asked him when this whole conversation, and nothing he'd said seemed to be alluding to anything regarding a favor. This stirred a reaction out of Heather, who's face had morphed into a rather...bothered one, one that was so unlike her. She uncrossed her arms, eyes darting between her husband and foster son, her temptation to speak still incredibly obvious just by her mannerisms.

"Are you serious?" Joe's smile was back, albeit more troublesome this time. "I can't believe you haven't figured it out—god, and did you really think I was going to let you off that easy? No, see—"

He paused, letting out an uneasy chuckle.

"See, I'm supposed to be meeting these guys downtown, tonight. But because of...erm, circumstances, I'm not able to do so."

"...circumstances?"

"Yeah, circumstances. Shit that isn't any of your business."

"Joe, come on, enough." Heather seemed to have given in to her temptation to speak and was placing her hand on her husband's shoulder. "He said he wasn't going to say anything, isn't that good enough?"

But Joe shrugged her off, turning to look at her with an annoyed expression.

"Christ, I'm sorry, did you miss the part where I said I can't go out tonight? Fuck, these drugs aren't gonna sell themselves, Heather—"

One of the kids ran by on their hobby horse, causing Joe to lower his voice. He turned away from Heather, and back to Connor.

"And since...since, they can't sell themselves..." He sniffed, rubbing at his nose, which honestly when Connor bother to look at it closely, appeared to be red and irritated. "That's the favor I'm askin' for, kid. You're going to go downtown, and meet those guys for me—tell 'em I sent you—"

"What?" Connor's eyes went round, his thumbs unhooking from each other.

"—give 'em the drugs—"

"No—"

"—and take the money, make sure they give you the right price—"

"No, stop!"

Just as he'd looked taken aback at Heather's refusal, he was the same way upon receiving Connor's blunt interruption. Only, there was a little more anger in his eyes...which, wasn't comforting. Not comforting at all.

"Did you just..." He let out a surprised huff, stepping back. Glancing at Heather, who was looking bothered again, he let out another huff and glanced back at Connor. "I'm sorry, what was that? Was that a 'no'? Did you just say no to me?"

"Yes! Because you're asking me to do something illegal!" Connor's voice cracked as he spoke, his brain screaming at him to stop. He needed to stop, he'd already said no, he'd already messed up. They were going to punish him, probably even worse if he kept going.

"Now Connor—"

"No! I-I already said I wasn't going to tell Ms. Stern, I promised you I wouldn't!" _Shut your mouth, shut your mouth, oh god, shut your mouth._ "Please, Joe, I'm sorry—I'm sorry I found them, I just—please, I could get in trouble—"

 _Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking._

"—I don't want...to get into trouble. What if Ms. Stern..."

"She won't. If you're smart and do what I say, then we can just forget about this." Joe stepped closer to Connor, leaning down to be face to face with the boy. His voice was overtaken by a much more threatening and darker tone as he continued speaking. "But, if you're a dumb piece of shit and disobey me, then I might just tell her what a brat you've been instead."

Connor could feel his face paling, despite trying his hardest to maintain as straight-faced as possible—his stomach simultaneously lurching at Joe's threat.

"You can't do that...that's lying..."

"Is it? Because you aren't acting very compliant right now. That's something I thought all you kids at the group house were supposed to be." Joe cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. "Or maybe you'd like to go back there? Is that it?"

"No. But I'd bet you'd hate it if I went back, wouldn't you?" _Oh, god. No. Connor. No, stop. Don't talk to him like this. Don't._ "It'd mean one less check a month for you and Heather to spend on yourselves."

 _Oh, you've done it—you've gone and done it now._

 _You knew better. You knew so much better._

He hadn't meant to let those words slip, they'd been lingering in his head and he hadn't been able to stop himself once they'd started coming. It hadn't felt good to say, not when could he feel his brain still yelling at him. Not when he could see the shock and anger on both his foster parents' faces and see the fist that was about to coincide with his face.

Things went blurry for a second, and when Connor was finally able to make sense of things again, he was greeted with a painful sensation on the left side of his face, and could feel a tiny, warm trickle of blood dripping out from his nose. He blinked several times, his eye stinging, and looked up to see that Joe had him by the shirt, fist raised and no doubt ready to strike a second time.

"I'll show you what happens when you get smart with me, boy."

Connor winced, bracing himself for the pain he knew he was about to feel surging through his jaw, but it never came. Instead, he saw Heather had grabbed her husband's arm, restraining it from going any further towards Connor, who was rightfully stunned at the sight.

"Now Joe, I think you're being a little harsh..."

This was a first. In other cases, Heather would've stood aside and allowed that fist to hit him...but no, she didn't actually care about him. He knew why she'd stopped Joe, and it wasn't because she'd suddenly grown a heart. That was probably impossible.

"But—Heather, he—"

"No, you said it yourself, Ms. Stern is coming tomorrow..." There was a coolness in her voice, and she'd taken Joe's hand in hers, soothingly rubbing it, causing him to shut up. "We could easily explain a black eye, but what is she going to think if she comes in here and sees him with a nose cast and a million bruises?"

She nodded at Connor. Joe sighed, releasing the folds of Connor's shirt. His fist unfurled, and he picked up the bag of red ice from where he'd probably dropped it during his fit of rage. As Connor was trying to pick himself back up, he was pushed back down by Joe's foot, and the bag was thrown at him, smacking him in the chest.

"I told the guys you'd be waitin' for 'em at the back of Jimmy's Bar...just...sell this shit for me, okay?"

He pulled his foot away from him and grabbed his unfinished beer from the table, taking a quick sip from it—then stomped off, rubbing at his nose a second time as he went into the living room. Heather followed soon after, not before stopping to retrieve the dust pan from near the cat's food bowl.

"And clean up that platter before you leave." She added, tossing it Connor's way. It landed at his feet, but he didn't look at it, or Heather as she left. Too much shame filled him now, shame for what he'd said, how he'd acted.

 _But he should be feeling ashamed, not us. He asked us to do something illegal, something bad, Connor. We didn't have to obey him._

Yes, yes, he did. He had to. It was what Amanda had always told him to do, alongside so many other things.

He _had_ to _obey_. He _had_ to tell the _had_ to comply _._ He _had_ to be respectful.

And he'd done none of those things.

He should have.

Then maybe he wouldn't be staining his shirt sleeve with the blood still spilling from his nostril.

* * *

The ambience of the bar only buzzed in Hank's ears, a mingled mix of words being exchanged, a basketball game on the television, and music playing on the old jukebox. None of it seemed audible despite being very, very loud, but he'd tuned out about thirty minutes after downing his first glass. He was on his third one now, and it sat on the bar next to him, halfway unfinished, next to the bottle of whiskey that the bartender had left out for him.

Ordinarily, he wouldn't find himself here at the bar on Monday evenings. Monday evenings were beer-at-home-and-watch-bad-movies types of days, after all, it was barely the start of the week. He would normally work his way towards the bar, gradually, as the week went on, but after the events of this day, he couldn't stand to be in his office any longer and going home wasn't any better.

Then again, neither was being here in the bar. This was only temptation to wake up with another hangover in the morning—and his head already hurt. It hurt from what he couldn't stop thinking about, it hurt from his trying to stop thinking about it, but not even the alcohol had helped. He doubted having another few glasses would help dull anything, it would probably put the words in his mind in a bold font...metaphorically, yes, but that just wasn't going to help, and it wasn't going to help him forget anything, either.

He'd tried to forget. He'd tried.

He'd been trying, all day, since getting back from the coroner's office and telling everyone about what was going on...trying to process it himself, trying to will the fact that there was a high likely of red ice being a real problem again. Everyone had reacted as about as well as he thought they would, too; Gavin getting pissed and asking questions, thankfully being interrupted to go respond to a call with Lee—Ben had really only reacted with silence, given that he'd already his suspicions in the first place, so this was more than likely not a shock to him at all.

And then there was Chris. Poor Chris, he'd hadn't even been at this job that long, and he was about as lost as Sumo had been that time Hank had accidentally left the back door of the house open. He didn't quite seem to understand, evidently not having been well-learned in the town's history upon moving here. Otherwise, he would've seemed just as grieved as the others had at the mention of those two damned words.

That had been the last time he'd really talked to anyone at the station today. After that conversation, he'd stayed in his office for another several hours, trying to focus on going through the files Amelia had left stacked on his desk. By the time the clock hit 5:14, however, he hadn't been able to stand it anymore. It had become too stifling to stay still anymore, to try and ignore the thoughts plaguing him-and so, he'd left. Driven straight down to the bar, and he wasn't even sure anyone knew he was even here. Mostly everyone had been off tending to a call or heating some microwave meal up in the kitchen.

Should he be drinking right now? Probably not. But he wasn't getting anywhere with those case files, and he'd been going stir crazy in there, anyways. He could say he just needed the fresh air, but if that were the case, he would've just stepped outside—and not gone to his car and driven to Jimmy's Bar instead.

His hand was resting on his glass, thumb caressing the rim of it as beads of sweat rolled down between his fingers. Sighing, he lifted the beverage to his lips, about to take a sip, when a loud buzzing alerted him into looking up at the game on the television. Hm, well, there went his hopes of being cheered up by watching this thing, not when the opposing team had just scored yet another winning point.

The universe couldn't even give him _that_ much, could it?

He watched the television, as the game cut to a commercial break, which was immediately interrupted by a preview of an upcoming news report...a report entailing events that had happened that morning, sure. Why not, it wasn't like he didn't care to see footage of himself driving away from a crime scene.

Nope, apparently the universe _could not_ give him that much.

Someone out there must really have it out for him if this is how his life had ended up. Five years ago, he would've been at that crime scene longer, he would've stayed and bothered talking to those pesky reporters. He wouldn't be at the bar, drinking, when he was supposed to be on duty.

The thought made him bitterly chuckle into his glass, as he finished off the large mouthful inside. God, what a pathetic sight he must make—he was quite literally the living, breathing version of that old, drunk sheriff stereotype you'd find in movies and tv shows. This was probably what he got for making fun of that stereotype in the past, wasn't it?

As he considered pouring himself another glass, the broken bell attached to the bar door jingled weakly as it was swung open, noises from the outside momentarily filling the building until the door fell shut. A pair of footsteps approached the bar as Hank picked the whiskey bottle back up, having made the decision to pour himself the fourth glass he'd been considering.

"Sheriff?"

The whiskey stopped pouring from the bottle, Hank tipping it back up at the sound of Chris Miller's voice. He looked back at the younger officer, sighing, and turned his focus back to filling his glass up, shaking his head.

"Miller...I thought you were still out at the Williams place."

"I was." Chris slid onto the empty seat next to Hank, as the whiskey bottle was placed back onto the bar top. "But Amelia ended up calling while I was on my way back, said something about you leaving abruptly. She seemed a bit worried so I—"

"You figured you'd come check up on me?" Hank stiffly cackled, lifting his glass. "Shit, Chris, I'm not a kid, I don't need babysitting. Can't I leave for a few minutes without one of you fuckers worrying about me?"

"A few minutes? Sheriff, you've been gone for two hours, I think that'd be a little reason for worry."

"I've been gone longer before. So, what?" He took a long sip from his glass before placing it back down. "None of you have cared to come lookin' for me before, either. What makes tonight any different?"

As if to answer his question, that previewed news report appeared on the television screen, alerting both officers into looking at it. The same reporter who'd tried, and failed, to interview Hank that morning was on screen, looking far too calm and pleasant to be talking about the issues she was.

" _This morning, the body of Lonnie Francis was discovered in the back alleys near the Sunset Laundry and Mayer's Grocery. He was reported to have been killed via gunshot, but police have not yet released an official statement on the incident as of today."_

She went on to make some statement about how the sheriff hadn't been able to be reached for comment, causing Hank to divert his attention back to swirling around the whiskey in his glass. Chris noticed his unease and looked around for the bartender, and upon spotting him, motioned for him to change the channel.

"Hey, Jimmy? Change the channel, will you, the game's over."

The news report disappeared from the screen, an old sitcom replacing it, but even that did nothing to stir Hank from staring into his drink. Chris seemed hesitant to even try speaking to him; given that his superior officer often spent of his time cooped up in his office, he'd never really seen him in this kind of state before.

"Sheriff, I uh..." Still, Hank didn't look up, and was now absentmindedly scratching at a chipped spot on the bar counter. "I know that we're all...erm, pretty startled by what's...possibly going on, but..."

Chris paused, a laugh track sounding from the television.

"I don't know, I mean, if it's as serious as you made it out to be...I just think you should be back at the station, with the rest of us."

His statement irked Hank, causing him to lift his head back up, his finger ceasing in the scratching of the chipped spot. He knew Chris had only meant well by what he said, he did, and he was right; the station is exactly where he needed to be, to do his job, instead of wandering off to get drunk just because he wasn't able to deal with imminent threats, properly.

That didn't change how much those words had irked him, though. Yes, he did need to go back to the station, and yes, he needed to be just as alert as the other officers else were, but that was something he wasn't entirely willing to do at the moment. Getting drunk seemed like the more preferable option, instead of waiting around to hear that someone else had been either killed in a botched drug deal or caught with the shit stuffed underneath their couch cushions.

His gaze dipped back down into his glass, staring at the beverage inside, before decidedly taking another long drink out of it. When he'd finished, he set the glass down hard enough for it clank against the bar, very much being tempted to get another glass. He decided against it, knowing all too well that things usually got pretty blurry for him following the fifth drink, and instead, moved his hand away from the bottle, placing it flat against the bar.

"Yeah, you're right. I should. It'd make sense, wouldn't it?" He tapped his fingers on the wood, then closed his eyes, tilting his head back. Mumbling under his breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose, and turned to look at Chris.

"But the fact is, Miller, I don't want to go back. Not when I know what's waitin' for me..."

"I don't think anyone else has called—"

"No, Chris. That's not—that's...not what I meant." Hank leaned forward, noting the surprise on the other officer's face at the sheriff's sudden usage of his first name. "I... fuck, you weren't here the first time. You wouldn't understand..."

There was the temptation to grab the bottle again. He almost did, but stopped, curling his hand back into a fist, inhaling sharply.

"Things...were so bad the first time, Chris. I had to arrest so many people...that I thought were good citizens, you know? And all because..."

He exhaled, reaching back to rub the nape of his neck.

"All because...there was no other way to make money. Hell, nearly everyone was tryin' to get in on the whole business, I thought I was gonna have to arrest the whole town at one point."

The laugh he let out after recalling the memory was a thin one, which quickly faded into a low sigh.

"No...I know I'm probably overreactin' or some shit, but I just...don't want to go through that again. It cost me too much the first time."

Aside from the ambiance of the bar, it had gone silent between the two men. It was probably in Chris's best interest to not try and say otherwise; even in his short time working at the station, he'd learned right away that his boss was a hardened, and secretive man who rarely, if ever opened up about anything. And when he did, there was nothing you could do to offer any comfort.

So instead, he pushed back his stool, and stood up.

"In that case, maybe here isn't the best place for you to be right now..."

"I ain't going back to the station, Chris."

"No, I wasn't suggesting that." By now, Jimmy had come back over to retrieve the whiskey bottle upon noticing that Hank seemed to be finished with it. "I know, it's been a long day for all of us...you especially. Why don't you just take a load off, let us handle things for the rest of the night?"

"You guys? Handle things?" Hank nearly laughed but restrained himself. "I don't know, anytime I leave you clowns alone it turns into a three-ring circus...you sure you can manage?"

"I wouldn't be offering if I didn't think I could." Chris smiled, in a way that nearly reminded Hank of a time when he'd been this warm and enthusiastic about his job.

 _He nearly missed times like that._

Looking the younger man up and down, Hank pressed his lips together, then nodded.

"Okay. If you say so."

With a grunt, he pushed himself off the bar stool, amazed to find that his feet hadn't fallen asleep on him during his whole two hours of not moving them. However, he was feeling a bit woozy from the three drinks he'd managed to consume and had to grab onto the bar to steady himself.

Chris took notice and took ahold of Hank's other arm, concern falling onto his face.

"You sure you're in any shape to drive yourself, Sheriff?"

"Yeah, sure." Hank slipped out of Chris's hold, grunting. "I could walk a straight line if you needed me to."

"Hah, I don't think it'll come to that." The bar door swung open and two other patrons walked in, both taking seats near Chris and Hank. "Maybe you should just let me drive you, I don't have any calls I need to tend to right now, anyways."

It was a nice offer, even if he wasn't entirely intoxicated, his mood wasn't the most appropriate for driving through the town at night time, and with slick, wet roads on top of that. If there was one thing he could remember clearly from his driving classes back in high school, it was that driving and bad moods were often just as bad a combination as alcohol and driving was.

"Sure. Why not?" He held his hands out, clapping them back to his sides, then picked his coat up from where he'd hung it on an adjacent stool. "C'mon, the car's parked out back."

"Out back?" Chris followed after Hank as the two walked towards the back exit of the bar. "Is that—oh, so that's why I didn't see it when I got here..."

"Exactly. I thought it might throw you off." Hank chuckled, stopping to grab the door handle. "But I guess that didn't work, huh?"

"Obviously not."

"Clearly. Or I'd be on my eighth whiskey by now."

He pushed the door open, sounds of rain echoing into the building, not even noticing the alert it caused from the two men at the bar, as they walked outside.

* * *

The raindrops cascaded down the gutter next to Connor, as he stood underneath what little shelter was available to him. Both his coat and hoodie were thoroughly soaked, and he shivered, hands shoved together in his front pocket, fidgeting anxiously with his coin. The bag of red ice Joe had given him was nearly burning a hole in his back pants pocket, had been for the hour he'd been standing out here.

He felt so cold. And so miserable. It had gotten dark much quicker than he'd thought it would, and he didn't like it out here. He didn't think he'd ever been out in town this long on his own before, let alone at night. It certainly wasn't any more comfortable back at the Phelps house, but at least it was warmer there. At least, there'd be light, at least, he might feel safer.

 _Safer, Connor? Really? You got hit in the fucking face, tonight, how does that qualify as safer?_

It didn't...it didn't qualify as safer, no. He hadn't seen what his eye looked like now, but the last time he'd touched it, he'd winced. It wasn't hard to tell that it was swollen, and he couldn't help but what wonder how bad it looked.

But it didn't matter how bad it looked. He'd deserved it. That was what he got for being disobedient, every time. He really did deserve it, Amanda would say so.

 _Amanda..._

His mouth went dry at remembering Joe's words, how he'd threatened to tell his caseworker all those false stories about him. Would he still do that now, because of how he'd disobeyed him? If he could just manage to get rid of these drugs for Joe, then maybe he had a better chance of having only good things said about him.

 _Even though, selling these drugs is wrong, and you know that—_

Yes, it was wrong. It was wrong to do this, but he had no other choice. It was what he'd been told to do, so it was what he had to do.

He continued playing with the coin, the piece of metal feeling slicker and slicker with each time it crossed paths with his sweaty fingers. He lay his head back against the wall of the building, exhaling and inhaling quick, uneasy breaths, which were visible in the cold night air. The rain seemed to be calming down, but there was still no sign of the guys he was supposed to be meeting.

Where were they?

No one had come out here, not since Connor had shown up. He couldn't possibly be late, could he? No, because if he'd shown up late, there was a good chance that those guys would be waiting out here for him-impatient, and angry, but they were neither of things, because they weren't here.

His head was swimming at the thought of what to do if they didn't show soon. He didn't want to be out here anymore, but he knew that he was doomed to get a bad report given to Amanda if he didn't do this tonight. Joe probably wouldn't even let him back in the house unless he had the cash to prove he'd sold the drugs, and not just tossed them into the dumpster, like he'd thought of doing several times over the past hour.

He closed his eyes, clutching his coin tight in one hand. But then, the coin slipped out of his hand, and his eyes flew back open, at the sound of the door next to him opening up. He lifted his head from the wall and looked to see two men exiting from the bar, engaged in conversation. Connor, now alert, watched them curiously as they walked past him, and towards a car that'd he'd found parked nearby upon showing up.

Huh.

Could these be the guys?

Joe hadn't given him any explicit details on what those men had looked like, even though he had asked him before he'd left. He'd only said something about one being older and taller than the other...and it was a little hard to tell in the dark, but one of the men _did_ appear to be a bit older than the one walking next to him.

 _Maybe this really could be them._

 _Maybe._

Or maybe not, maybe he was about to get in a shit ton of trouble instead.

The voice in his head told him the latter, but he found himself walking after them anyways. It started out as a slow pace, but picked up, into nearly a whole run. It was so cold out here, so cold, and so dark. He just wanted to get this over with, these had to be the guys. Who else would be walking back out here, unless they didn't want to be seen?

"Hey!" He shouted twice, this, and his approaching footsteps being enough to gain the attention of the men. "Hey, wait a minute!"

The men stopped walking and turned to look back at him. They both looked confused, something Connor didn't notice as he came up to them, as he was much too consumed in his eagerness to finally be done with this task.

"I'm so glad you guys finally showed up, I've been waiting out here for nearly an hour!" He huffed, attempting to catch his breath. "I was starting to think I was going to be out here all night!"

"Uh, I'm sorry?" The older man was the first speak, furrowing his brow at the teenager. But Connor hadn't heard him and was reaching into his back pocket, trying to pull out the plastic bag best he could without ripping it.

"I've um, I've got what you asked for." The bag caught on a button momentarily, but he managed to yank it free, holding the bag out for one of the men to take. But neither of them took it, and only remained to look confused. They exchanged these confused looks, and the younger one looked back to Connor, offering an equally-as-puzzled smile his way.

"Asked for? Uh, I'm sorry, kid, but I don't think—"

"No no, I swear it's all there! Don't worry!" Connor insisted and stepped closer, into the light of a nearby lamp pole, which revealed the sharp red color inside. This caused the confused expressions on the men's faces to transform into those of shock, one letting out an "oh no" and a "what the fuck" coming from the other.

Connor's face faltered, and he lowered the bag.

 _Those...couldn't be good reactions, could they?_

Oh no.

He was in trouble, wasn't he?


	5. Chapter 5

He couldn't stop staring at it.

His hand, cold, and shaking. His wrist, entrapped in a cuff, that was clipped to the table.

Try as he might, Connor hadn't been able to calm himself, or steady his heartbeat. His knee couldn't stop bouncing, foot tapping growing more erratic, and more anxious. He wanted his coin. Where was his coin, had he dropped it back in the alley? Had he dropped it when he chased after those guys— _the wrong guys—_ he must have, he couldn't feel it in his pocket anymore.

He'd fucked up.

He'd fucked up so bad, he'd fucked up when he'd promised Joe he wouldn't. He didn't use his brain, he hadn't been smart...unless being smart meant accidentally thinking your foster father's clients were a pair of cops.

 _What had he been thinking!?_

He was such a dumb fuck, Joe was sure to tell Amanda about this. He was going to back to the group home, he was going to go back to _that_ room—

He didn't want to go back there.

This room was already reminding him too much of _that_ room. It was so empty, aside from the table he sat at, and was so...colorless, and devoid of anything cheerful. The only difference, he figured, was that there was a large window to the right of him, whereas _that_ room had nothing but a single door.

Were there people on the other side of that window?

He wondered.

It was a possibility, he had gotten the feeling he was being watched from the very minute he'd been shoved in here. He wondered if that man...the one who'd pulled on the gun on him was watching. He probably was, he'd heard the other man call him "sheriff" a few times.

 _Shit._

He'd been in here for a while now, he didn't know how long. For ten minutes, it'd just been him, alone, in the unbearable silence of this room with only the hum of the air vent as his company. He'd jerked his head up as the door had opened, recognizing the officer who'd cuffed him as he walked in. He'd been followed by another man, who hadn't seemed nearly as calm or friendly. Instead, he'd looked at Connor like he was that annoying scrap of bubblegum you found stuck to your shoe, sneering at him.

Perhaps it'd been selfish for Connor to silently pray it wouldn't be that man who would be sitting in front of him, but he hadn't wanted that man asking him any questions. He hadn't wanted anyone asking him questions, not when he didn't know how to answer them. One side of him had, and still yearned to tell the truth, after all, that's how he'd been raised, it was what he'd been taught, and a rule he'd tried to keep his whole life.

But then...what would telling the truth mean, should he do? Joe had told him not to say anything, had told him to lie...how could he tell the truth, when that would mean disobeying what he'd been told to do?

It was an impossible choice, and just trying to figure out what to do was making his mind cave in on him.

"Okay, let me try this one more time." The other man, who'd he come to learn went by the name of Deputy Reed, leaned forward in his seat, grunting. "So, you're saying that the red ice in that bag...that ain't yours?"

"No." While it'd been nigh onto impossible for Connor to fairly answer the other questions he'd been asked, this was one he could at least answer straightly. "No, sir. It isn't mine."

This might have been the answer Deputy Reed was expecting, because he seemed amused by it. Snickering, he shook his head, and unfolded his hands.

"That so?" The other officer, Deputy Miller, was standing behind him, shooting bothered glances between him and Reed. "You sure you aren't lying to me, kid?"

"Gavin, hey, can't you just—"

"Because," He went on, ignoring the fact that Deputy Miller had interrupted him. "You don't want to know what we do to liars around here. But hey, you keep answering questions like this, and you just might find out."

Connor stared back at him, remaining as straight-faced as ever. But those last words had made his mouth go dry, barely having enough saliva to force down a nervous swallow. Deputy Miller cleared his throat, quick to raise his hands in reassurance.

"Don't listen to him, no one here is going to hurt you." Reed rolled his eyes at the other officer's gentle words, huffing as he leaned back in his seat. "All we want to know is the truth, okay? You tell us that, we can help you out."

 _Help._

 _They_ could help him out?

He wished. Oh, how he wished they could.

Even with Deputy Miller's reassurance, Connor didn't respond. He broke eye contact with the two men, fixating on the tiny speckles dotting the otherwise stark-white table, and went back to drumming his fingers against it.

* * *

 _Hank and Chris stepped out of the bar into the cold night air, as the rain that had been pouring heavily for the past couple of hours began to subside. It hadn't looked quite as dark when Hank had come here earlier, but now it looked like someone had emptied a bottle of ink into the sky, complete with blotted cotton to block out the stars and moon. Only the street lights offered them any light, and even then, it wasn't much where they were currently standing—the back of the bar being about as well-lit as a room that no one had bothered to change the light bulb of._

 _Through the wire fence surrounding the back alley, Hank's car was visible on the other side, parked beside a damaged street sign. He headed to the bottom of the stairs, waiting for Chris as the other man shut the bar door behind him. Even as the two were about to make the trek across the alley, Chris stopped Hank halfway, grabbing him by the arm._

" _Hey, Sheriff...I didn't want to bring this up, again, but..."_

" _Yeah?"_

" _The_ _fight I had with Deputy Reed, this morning. I uh..." Chris said, scratching at the back of his head. "I just wanted to explain what happened—"_

" _Ah, Chris. You don't need to do that." Hank held his hand up, shaking his head. "I know you didn't start it, Reed's been working for me for five years. He was an asshole then, and he's still an asshole now, don't stress yourself out over it."_

" _But Sh—"_

" _Hey, stop. I said don't stress yourself out over it." A cold breeze passed over both men, causing Hank to fold his arms together and shudder. "You're a good guy, Chris, don't let that fucker convince you otherwise."_

 _Hank's response seemed to have dumbfounded Chris, who had probably had a whole apology speech planned out prior to now. He seemed at a loss for words momentarily, before clearing his throat, and shifting on both feet, but had a small smile on his face as he glanced back up._

" _Thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate that."_

" _Eh, sure. Don't mention it." Hank grunted, unfolding his arms. Another cold air passed over them again, this time making him shove both hands into his coat pockets. "Now come on, it's fuckin' cold out here. Let's get going before either of us turn into human popsicles."_

 _He hadn't meant to cut the conversation off so harshly, but he knew the longer he stayed out here in the cold, and the longer his four drinks of whiskey simmered in his gut, he was going to end up in a mood worse than the one he was usually in. Thankfully, Chris seemed just as eager as he did to get out of the cold, nodding in agreement, so both men began to make their way towards the fence._

 _The closer they got to the fence, however, it began to sound like there was another pair of footsteps behind them. Hank didn't bother looking behind him, given that his head was already buzzing, he figured he was just hearing things. And that must be the case, because Chris hadn't said anything about it, so he just kept walking._

" _Hey! Hey, wait a minute!"_

 _A voice rang out between the slowing raindrops, and the supposed footsteps, which were beginning to sound even louder, and even closer. Hank stopped, sharing a glance with Chris to confirm that he had also heard it this time, and the two men turned around to see...well, it was hard to tell at first (as they were all standing in the dark), but as the footsteps grew to a stop, they were revealed to belong to a young boy, looking to be in his mid-teens. He was soaked from head to foot, dressed in clothes that looked far too baggy to be his own._

 _Now this was alarming. From his own experiences in the past, Hank knew it was never a good thing when you were out late and found a kid hanging out behind a bar—hell, that was where he'd found most of the red ice dealers back in the day. And of course, his mind (being the wonderful malfunctioning piece of shit it was), had gone straight to this conclusion—that this must be the same case._

 _Or, maybe it wasn't._

 _Maybe he should just stop jumping to conclusions, but that was going to be hard to do. What other reason could a kid this young be out here, at nearly 7:14 at night? Sure, curfew wasn't until 11:00...but what difference did it make? He was out here, alone, behind a bar, and the fact that he was drenched seemed to imply that he'd been waiting out here for a long time._

 _But maybe it would be better to not assume anything just yet. He couldn't just around assuming everything was connected to red ice, could he? Where would that leave him, if he did?_

 _So instead, he didn't say anything just yet. And neither did Chris, who looked just as confused as Hank did. The kid was the one to speak up, after he'd taken a minute to presumably catch his breath. Maybe whatever he said would shed some light on this situation._

" _I'm so glad you guys finally showed up, I've been waiting out here for nearly an hour!" he said, with a voice that sounded...oddly eager._ _"I was starting to think I was going to be out here all night!"_

 _Okay, so that hadn't shed any light on this situation at all. Hank was positive he didn't know this kid, despite him acting like so. Had he supposed to have been meeting someone else? That had to be it...but it didn't explain everything. It didn't explain what kind of parent would allow their kid to be out here, in the dark, and meeting with two strangers._

 _He furrowed his brow, staring at the teenager with a quizzical expression._

" _Uh, I'm sorry?"_

 _But the boy seemed like he hadn't heard him and looked like he was reaching into his back pocket. A second alarm bell went off in Hank's mind, but he ignored it. No, he wasn't going to jump to any conclusions yet, he still didn't know what was going on. No conclusions, not until he knew for sure._

" _I've um, I've got what you asked for." A plastic bag. There was a plastic bag, of something, in his hand. A third alarm bell went off. Hank exchanged another look with Chris, who seemed to sense his alarm, and stepped towards the kid, offering a kind but very puzzled smile to him._

" _Asked for? Uh, I'm sorry, kid, but I don't think—"_

" _No no, I swear it's all there! Don't worry!" He interrupted Chris, himself stepping into the light being cast off from a nearby street light and held the bag out in persistence. This revealed the red color of the substance inside his bag...causing a fourth alarm bell to shatter any composure Hank might've been trying to put together._

 _Well, so much for not jumping to conclusions, huh? That had definitely done a lot of good._

" _What the fuck—" Were the first words to escape his mouth, Chris uttering a similar reaction, though his was less vulgar and was more or less along the lines of a "oh no". The boy's face seemed to falter at their reactions, and he lowered the bag._

" _What...what's wrong?"_

 _Wrong? Was he serious?_

 _How else had he expected two cops to react to the fact that he was holding a bag of drugs? There was a small possibility he hadn't noticed the badges, given that it wasn't exactly well lit back here...oh, wait, now it looked he'd noticed the badges, because Hank could already see all the color draining from his face. Classic reaction of any red ice dealer he'd met up with in the past, though none of them had been a baby-faced teenager before._

 _He almost felt a bit bad, seeing how visibly bothered the boy looked—but internally scolded himself. There was absolutely no reason to feel upset for this boy, he knew damn well that what he was doing was wrong—and Hank was past wasting his pity on people like that._

 _Though, he tried to remain as calm as he possibly could. With his head all abuzz, he wasn't about to let this turn into a street chase._

" _Son..." He spoke low, feeling like he'd be shouting should he talk any louder. He didn't want to shout, he was actually afraid to this time. "What are you doing with that?"_

 _He pointed towards the bag as he asked this question but got no cohere able response from the boy. The only response he did give off was confused stammering, as he looked between the bag he was holding, and the two officers in front of him._

" _I—go—I don't—"_

" _Look, it's not a hard question. What were you planning to do with this shit, huh?" Hank's voice rose a level, though he hadn't meant it to. He'd barked loud enough to make the kid take a step back, his eyes widened like a deer caught in the headlights._

" _I—um..."_

" _Nevermind, don't answer that." Chris stepped in, a cautious hand raised mid-air. "We're gonna need you to hand that bag over, kid."_

 _The hand he had risen, he extended towards the kid, remaining cautious, as he waited for him to do as he'd asked. But the kid did nothing, instead remaining frozen in place, absolutely no color left on his face._

 _Ever the impatient man himself, Hank found himself growing irritated at the teenager's apparent inability to comply. He had to applaud Chris for being so patient, and so calm, because he was nearly seething inside of himself by this point. He thought that by leaving the bar, he'd have a chance to go home, slip into a deep sleep, and try to forget about all this drug crap for a few hours._

 _But no._

 _Instead, he was in a back alley, with a skinny kid who had more in common with a statue than a functioning human being right now. He still hadn't handed over the bag, despite Chris's coaxing, and Hank decided he was done waiting. What he did next, was something that he never would've considered doing in the past, unless it had been a situation that called for a gun to be pulled._

 _That wasn't the situation now. That wasn't what he'd needed to do, but it's what he'd decided to do, as his patience, and temper, were both things that were easily worn thin._

 _He'd reached back, retrieving his pistol from his holster._

" _Alright, you heard what he said. Hand the bag over, now!"_

 _It didn't matter how close Chris had been to convincing the kid now, because as soon as he looked to see the gun pointed his way, the bag fell out of his hand. Both hands remained frozen in the air, eyes locked on the gun's barrel like he was too afraid he'd be shot if he looked away from it. Hank kept it concentrated on him, while Chris knelt to pick the bag up from out of the puddle it'd been dropped into._

" _Erm, thanks for the assist...but I don't think that was necessary." He eyed Hank, disapprovingly, as he stood back up. "He was about hand it over—"_

" _Yeah, well he wasn't quick enough."_

" _Sheriff, come on. He's just a kid, I don't think—"_

" _Just a kid, yeah, sure. A kid with a bag of fuckin' red ice on him, what's your point?" Hank scowled, easing his finger away from where he'd instinctively placed it on the trigger. The kid was gulping now, his arms having become glued to his sides, and Hank could see that they were visibly shaking. Their eyes met, and Hank could see that all too familiar glaze of fear in the boy's eyes...he'd seen it in the eyes of many suspects over the long span of his career, but...there was something different in this case._

 _There was guilt._

 _This boy had guilt, and shame in his eyes. And it wasn't the kind Hank was accustomed to seeing._

 _Still, he didn't lower his gun, keeping it focused on him as Chris removed a pair of cuffs from his own belt, and was ordering the boy to turn around. He didn't, still very much frozen in fear (no doubt because of the gun), and Hank found himself having to step a bit closer, motioning with the gun._

" _I ain't repeating what he said. Just put your hands up, and keep 'em where I can see 'em, okay?"_

" _I—"_

" _Hands. Up." Hank spoke through gritted teeth, tightening his hold on the gun. "Now."_

 _That was enough, that was all he'd needed to say. The boy did as Hank had said, his shaking hands now back up in the air, and Hank half-expected his head to lower. It was a typical move he'd seen from other people he'd arrested in the past, none of them daring to make eye contact, often muttering some swears under their breath while they were cuffed._

 _But not this one._

 _His eyes remained locked on Hank, even as Chris pulled his hands down to cuff them and read him his rights. The guilt and shame were there, easy to see, even in the dim light. Something else too, something Hank couldn't quite make out. Fear, perhaps...but it was hard to tell. Whatever the emotion, those eyes stayed firmly in place, betraying the cold, blankness that the rest of his face held. The only thing that seemed to be moving was his lower lip, which was quivering ever so slightly._

 _What the hell..._

 _It was like he wanted to be afraid, but...didn't want to show it?_

 _That didn't make any sense to Hank, but then again, a lot of things had stopped making sense to him by this point in his life. This was just something else for his brain to temporarily obsess over, and nothing more. It'd probably fade out in a few days, and he'd be back to obsessing over something else._

" _Alright, that's that. Let's go." Chris finished securing the cuffs, grabbing the boy by his arm, who almost looked like he'd flinched upon being touched. Hank eyed him for a minute, before finally lowering his gun. It'd felt like being on automatic when he'd taken it out, like he hadn't even realized he'd done it despite holding it so firmly._

 _Putting it back in his holster was the very real realization that he'd just pulled a gun on a kid, and nearly seemed close to shooting him, all because he'd gotten impatient._

 _Christ...was this how low he'd sunken?_

 _This thought made him stand frozen as Chris led the kid past him, only being alerted that they were leaving as the old gate nearby was pushed open, emitting a loud, rusty squeak. Cursing silently, Hank shook himself and went to catch up with them, and the three walked to where his car was parked and waiting._

* * *

It was pushing 10:00 at night, and Hank was beginning to wish he'd parked in the front of the bar tonight.

Even though Chris had offered to drive him home anyways and just take the kid to the station, he'd declined. In any other situation he wouldn't have, say this had just been a simple robbery, but that was just it—this wasn't a simple robbery, they'd found a kid, in the back alley of a bar, trying to sell off a rather sizeable bag of red ice.

Maybe that's why he'd decided to come back. Not just because of the red ice...that was part of it, yes, but...there was just something incredibly off about the boy, that Hank couldn't quite put his finger on. He couldn't forget the silent, numb fear in his eyes, and the way he'd just stared at him as he'd kept the gun focused on him.

It... well, it was almost haunting when he recalled it.

Not to mention the boy's complete silence the entire drive back to the station. Chris had made one or two attempts to talk to him, but he'd said nothing. Even now, as he was seated in the interrogation room, and seated on the opposite side of Gavin, no less—he still didn't seem all that keen on giving any straight answers, let alone give his name.

Hank had decided against going in there and talking to the teen himself; he was still kicking himself in the ass for having pulled a gun on him, in his rage, and had been trying his hardest to nurse the headache that had only grown stronger in the long three hours he'd been waiting behind this glass window. Naturally Gavin had jumped at the chance to dig into the kid, and with how almost eager he'd sounded, Hank had made the wise decision to let Chris be in there as a secondary interrogator, just in case things went south.

But even with Gavin's harsh questioning and Chris's gentle intervening, the boy hadn't said much. He was talking now, at least, but it wasn't anything go to by. Any answer he gave was a vague one, whether it be by words or a shrug. He'd sometimes look around the room, eyes darting around, and fingers drumming against the table.

Which was what he was doing at this very moment.

Gavin had made another off-color remark, once again causing Chris to have to reassure the boy in hopes of maybe getting a solid answer out of him. This had been a repeated cycle all night, one that had grown very tiring to watch, and very aggravating.

The clock ticking continued to go on and on behind his head, and he sighed tiredly, picking up the cup of coffee he was surprised he hadn't finished yet. Ben was seated next to him, having been scrawling things onto a notepad for most of the interrogation. Hank wasn't sure what he could possibly be writing, or if he wasn't just doodling things out of boredom. He would be willing to bet the latter if he didn't know that Ben was far more mature than that.

"So, you got anything noteworthy on that thing yet?"

Ben chuckled slightly, turning over the notepad page to a fresh seat.

"Just observations. Nothing that'll help us, though." He sat his pen down, sighing. "How long have we been at this, Hank? At this point, I'm beginning to think this kid isn't going to say anything."

"Nah, he won't. Not as long as Gavin keeps that bad cop shit going." Grunting, Hank pushed his seat back and stood up, trying his best to stretch without pulling any important muscles. Which was not an easy task at all, when you were a 53-year-old man who didn't really take care of himself and existed purely off of alcohol and coffee.

"No kidding." Ben agreed, glancing back to the mirror as the aforementioned cop could be heard saying some inaudible obscenity again. "Heh, how much longer do you think this is gonna go on for?"

"At the rate we're going, the rest of the whole goddamn night." Picking up his coffee, Hank finished off the large gulp still inside before crumpling the cup and tossing it into a nearby trashcan, which was overfilled with several other crumpled cups as well as pieces of paper. "For my sake, I'm giving 'em another five minutes. We don't get anything in that time, we'll just have to figure something else out."

Ben nodded a silent agreement, before turning his focus back to the pad of paper on the desk, a pen click and some soft scribbling following immediately after. It wasn't enough to drown out the nothing that was obviously happening in the other room, and Hank had already turned his back to it. Both hands shoved in his pants pockets, all he could do was stand there idly, resisting the urge to make another retreat back out to the coffee pot.

As those long five minutes continued to pass, the sound of the pen scribbling was soon accompanied by the door clicking open, as Amelia poked her head inside, scrunching her face together, and letting out a tiny snort.

"Eesh, it reeks of disappointment in here." She stepped inside, a box of pastries held in one hand, while adjusting her purse strap with the other. "And here I was thinking you guys had actually made some progress while I was gone, I take it all back."

"Hey, not helping." Hank grunted, taking his hands out of his pockets. "What the hell are you doing back here anyways, I thought you went home an hour ago."

"Ehh, I was going to. But then I thought, gosh, it sure isn't fair that my coworkers are working late. So, I figured I'd make a snack run instead." She lifted the pastry box to make her point, setting it down on the desk next to Ben's notepad. "I figured you guys would be needing it, anyways—and Jesus Christ, Hank, how much coffee have you been drinking?"

Like she had radar for this kind of thing, it hadn't taken her much time to notice the number of cups crumpled up in the trash can.

"Oh, get off my ass, Amelia, it's been a long night." Hank narrowed his eyes, placing both hands on his hips as he turned back around towards the window. He could see that Gavin had gotten up from the desk by now, and was pacing around, possibly grumbling to himself, while Chris seated himself to be level with the kid...who still didn't look like he'd said anything.

"Clearly." She'd opened the box, already having taken out and bitten down on a cherry Danish. A rather appetizing looking Danish on top of that, reminding Hank he hadn't eaten anything since those stale pretzels at the bar. But he knew better than to take anything Amelia offered him, and besides, he could see the gluten-free label on the side of the box.

Suddenly, the door to the other room swung open and Gavin's loud voice could be heard complaining as he stomped out, nearly slamming the door in Chris' face. Chris, who wasn't far behind him, wasn't quite able to get any word in edgewise before the other man was already addressing his coworkers.

"I'm done, I'm fucking done with that little shit. I've tried everything I could goddamn think of and he still won't crack!"

"And if you'd just let me do more of the talking, maybe we'd have had more luck." Chris pointed out, reaching back to shut the door. "You were being a little too harsh, Gavin, what the hell were you thinking? _'You don't want to know what we do to liars around here'_ , really? What kind of talk is that?"

"The kind of talk that's necessary in cases like this, that's what!" Gavin huffed, seating himself on the edge of the desk. Upon noticing the pastry box next to him, he snatched out a Danish and took a bite out of it, speaking his next words with his mouth full. "Chris, listen, you cozy up to these guys, they won't say anything. If _you'd_ been the one doing the talking then God knows how long, we would've been in there."

"Oh, like you were doing any better. We were in there for four hours, Gavin—"

"Hey, enough!" Twice today had he had to break up an argument between these two, so it wasn't a surprise that Hank practically barked at the younger officers, causing things in the room to go instantly quiet. Aside from Gavin's loud chewing, of course, that noise unfortunately remained.

"Look, it doesn't matter which one of you was talkin' to him." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Hank sighed. "Fact is, he just doesn't seem to be interested in saying anything. At least not right now."

"I'm not so sure about that, Sheriff." Chris stepped forward, looking momentarily back at the window, then back to Hank. "See, there were a few instances where I asked him something...and I could've sworn he was about to respond. He seems like he wants to talk to us, something just keeps stopping him."

"I second that." Ben stood up, pushing his seat back. "I've been watching him this whole time, Hank—now while I may not be an expert on body language or stuff like that, there's definitely something up with that kid. And it definitely isn't guilt."

"Oh, come on!" Gavin stopped mid-chew of his next mouthful, looking around in disbelief at his co-workers. "You seriously can't believe that, the kid's about as guilty as they come. I say we throw him in a holding cell for the night, see how long it is before he's begging to talk."

"For Christ's sake, lay off the NCIS marathons, Gavin!" Amelia shot Gavin a look, brows bumped together into a scowl as she too, had taken a minute to look at the kid herself, and had now decided to include herself in this conversation, whether she was an officer or not. "He's just a kid, you're acting like he's some kind of hardened criminal."

"Hey—"

"And look at him, it's no wonder he hasn't been saying anything! You guys just threw him in there and now we're all looking at him through the glass, like he's a caged animal or something!"

"Fucking hell, do you have to blame me for everything?" Gavin held his hands up in defense, dropping the Danish beside him. "I'm not the one who pulled a gun on him, remember? You can't hold me responsible for that!"

Hands dropping back to his sides, Gavin, glanced towards Hank, while nearly everyone else in the room fell silent. Except for Chris, who had slipped away from the conversation to answer his phone, which had gone off during Amelia and Gavin's back-and-forth spat.

"Nah, the one you want to hold responsible is standing right over there."

Having still been looking in the window all this time, Gavin's words caused Hank to look back over at the group in front of him. Fuck, he hated moments like this...this was exactly why he wondered why he bothered talking when he was angry. He was bound to say anything he might regret and had done exactly so when they'd shown back up at the station with the boy in tow, and during his tirade, had accidentally let it slip that he'd taken his gun out.

In his defense, though, he hadn't realized Gavin was in the same room at the time.

 _Damnit._

Should he say something? He should, Gavin was under his orders, after all. He'd gotten away with mouthing off far too many times, and far too many times had Hank only told him to piss off and went back to his office, feeling better off in ignoring anything else that might happen.

But this wasn't a time he could do that. Not when everyone was in the same room, and not Hank couldn't even bring himself to make up an excuse to defend himself. Gavin's words had only poured more salt in the open wound that was his memory of that regretful action.

"Sheriff?" Chris spoke first, almost relieving Hank that there was a small chance the topic would be changed for a minute. "I know this probably isn't a good time, but my wife needs me to come home. Can I just—"

"Yeah, sure. Go ahead." Hank gave a wave of his hand, turning to look at the scribbles on Ben's notepad. Nothing of interest, save for several notes about the kid's mannerisms. He was still looking, even as Chris nodded his thanks, before heading out of the room. Gavin watched him leave, then stood up from the desk.

"I still say we throw him in a holding cell, Sheriff. Might be our only option to get any answers out of him."

"No, we're not doing that." Picking up the notepad, Hank flipped through pages before closing it, handing it back over to Ben. "I already scarred the kid once tonight, and once was enough. We put him in a holding cell, he's bound to shit his pants."

"But I think—"

"I don't care what you think, Reed. If you don't mind putting him in a holding cell, then I'm sure you wouldn't mind mopping up his shit either."

This was enough to put the idea out of Gavin's head, who looked disgusted at the idea. Though maybe the disgust was from the fact he'd just taken another bite out of his Danish and had just now realized that it was sugar-free. Grumbling, he dropped it back to the desk, several crumbs breaking off next to it in the process.

"Fuck this. I'm going back in there, and I swear, I swear I'm gonna make him talk this time."

"Gavin—" Amelia started, but Hank was quick to step in front of him as he headed towards the door.

"No, you aren't."

"Get out of my way—" Gavin tried to shove past Hank, but the older man grabbed him by the arm, yanking him back.

"Damnit, Reed, do you want me to pull my gun on you, too?" Hank seethed, releasing Gavin with enough force for him to stumble back into the wall, though his hand remained seized on a handful of his uniform. "I said _no,_ and that's that. Now go do something productive and go on patrol with Tina, she should be leaving right about now."

"Fucking—patrol? No! I already went tonight—"

"And? A second time won't hurt you, now get out of here."

Much to Hank's—and maybe everyone else's relief, Gavin's only response this time was a silent glare, and he shoved out of Hank's grasp, muttering in disgruntlement as he left. The door slammed shut behind him, nearly enough to shake the room.

"Jesus..." Amelia's voice sounded shaky, as if she'd been expecting that altercation to go in a whole other direction, and she released her arms, which she'd been pressing tightly against her chest. Even Ben, who was usually the silent type in these scenarios, looked a bit bothered as he went over the minimal contents of his notepad.

"Yeah, good riddance." Hank shook his head, then looked back to the window for the hundredth time that night. To his surprise, it didn't look like the kid had stopped fidgeting, even if the people bothering him were now absent from the room. His hands were folded together, despite one being cuffed to the table, and now it was his feet that were tapping against the floor. He was looking over his shoulder, behind him, and every other which way, like he thought he was being watched...which, technically speaking, he was.

 _Could he sense it?_

Hank only wondered this when the kid's eyes landed on the window, where he himself was standing. He knew the kid couldn't possibly see him, but it still felt like his eyes had locked onto him. Like he knew he and the others were there.

Shit, maybe Ben had a point about there being something else going on with this kid. Hank knew how guilt worked all too well, but it was just like earlier, when he'd stared him down with the gun. The guilt was evident, that much was obvious. But there was something else going on in that boy's mind, the only problem was, Hank didn't know what it was, or if he was going to ever find it out.

And he didn't know if he wanted to. He didn't want to think there might be something else going on, something that would give this kid a defense for why he was out in a back alley at night trying to peddle off red ice. It'd be easier to keep assuming things.

But now... _fuck._

Now that Ben and Chris had pointed this factor out—that factor being the boy's mannerisms and apparent yearning to speak, he knew that assuming wasn't an option anymore. He was going to have to talk to this kid himself, whether he liked it or not.


	6. Chapter 6

Hank sat at his desk, mindlessly thumbing through one of the files from the stack Amelia had left him that morning. It was only an idle action, he really had no interest in looking at them-now or never. The chair creaked underneath his weight as he swung it back and forth, eyes concentrated on the door like he was expecting it to open at any minute.

Which, he was. And it was supposed to be opening, it was supposed to open just a few short minutes after he had came in here. Checking the clock on the wall, he could see that it now been seven minutes since he'd sat down, and now all he could do was wait and wonder where the hell Ben was at with the kid. They'd agreed not to house him in that other room anymore; he'd already looked uncomfortable enough as it was and had seemed to catch onto the notion that he was being watched.

Hank had thought it better to just move the interrogation in here, where they didn't have to worry about being watched-or Gavin coming in and fucking everything up as usual. Thankfully, the more brash officer was still out on patrol with Lee, and would not be coming back for another couple of hours. By then, Hank hoped to have had this situation figured out and be on his way home.

He could only imagine the state the house was in by now.

If he was gone too long, Sumo would become incredibly restless and start to chew on anything he could find-and that anything could range from furniture to one of the few jazz records he didn't have here at the department with him. In fact it was for that very reason he kept so many of them here, after he'd come home once to find one of his John Coltrane records secured snuggly in the big dog's paws as chewed at it, only glancing up at his owner long enough to feign innocence.

It was an action, now that Hank thought about it, that was very reminiscent of what had happened tonight.

At last, the door was opening, right as Hank was entertaining the thought of locking his records up in the closet the next time he left home. He wasn't even sure why he hadn't done that in the other instances before. Looking up from where he had momentarily become distracted by the file he'd been playing with, he saw Ben stepping aside, allowing the kid to walk in before him. Or that's what he thought was going on, but he didn't see the kid anywhere.

"Come on, it's alright." He came into view at Ben's coaxing, an uneasy expression on his face, and his hands wrapped around a small mug. Ah, so he was there. Hank couldn't blame him if he was hesitant, hell if he had to talk to himself he'd be hesitant too. Though, that didn't explain the mug he was holding.

"Sorry we took so long, Hank, I'm sure you can understand the delay." Ben chuckled, reaching to grab the door knob. "Amelia saw him shiver _once_ and insisted on getting him a warm drink. You know how she is."

"Oh, I know. Yeah, believe me," _So that explained the mug._ "One of us could barely sneeze and she'd already be there with the chicken soup and hot tea."

He sat up in his seat, scooting the chair closer to the desk.

"Let her know she can go home now, if she wants. Unless there's any more surprise files she wants to sort through herself."

"Sure thing, Hank." Ben nodded, and before leaving, glanced at the kid one more time. He said nothing, his look only that of concern, then proceeded to shut the door, leaving Hank and the kid alone in his office. And speaking of offices, that's exactly how the kid looked right now-like that guilty kid who got sent to the principal's office for some ungodly reason or the other. Hank ought to know, he'd been that guilty kid at one point during high school, so he could partly understand how he felt. He looked so awkward and uneasy, just standing there with both hands still clutching the mug full of who-knows-what Amelia had given him, looking around at the stuff in the room with curiosity.

He only stopped looking as Hank cleared his throat, causing his eyes to cease their wandering. They landed on Hank, and all of a sudden, that curiosity was gone, replaced by the same, numb fear that he'd seen earlier that night.

 _No doubt he was having flashbacks to the gun being drawn on him, hah. Nice going, Hank._

"Um…" Hank cleared his throat a second time, not sure how to start. "Go ahead and have a seat, son."

The kid immediately obeyed. Though clunkily, he shuffled over to one of the chairs in front of Hank's desk, and seated himself in it, placing the mug in his lap. He sat perfectly straight and still, despite one of his knees bouncing a bit, and his thumbs started to tap against the porcelain handle of the mug. He did look around his shoulder once, just to clarify he wasn't being watched, but seemed to relax at the sight of blinds covering the few windows this room had.

"Yeah, I thought you might like this better." His head turned back as Hank spoke. "I never liked that other room much myself, always found it a bit stifling, honestly."

Pushing aside the files, Hank scooted the chair just a tad closer, to where the desk was cutting into his stomach. Resting both hands atop it, he looked across at the kid, trying his best to maintain a pleasant expression. It wasn't exactly an easy task for him, but he knew if he was going to want this boy to cooperate, he was going to have appear cooperatable. Not that he'd planned on having to do this himself, but as Gavin had pretty much ruined any chance he and Chris had of getting any answers, it was all on him now.

He could see the kid was looking around his shoulder again, and found the pleasant expression was already wanting to wither off his face. _This wasn't going to be easy._

"Hey, kid, I promise ya, nobody's watching you this time." Hank spoke louder than he'd intended, but it was enough to put the kid's attention back on him. "You can talk now, it's okay. You think you can do that?"

"If you're going to ask me the same questions, then I don't see the point, sir." Okay, wow. Shit, he hadn't expected a reply so fast...or that tone of voice. It sounded so formal, or at least, trained to be that way. None of the kids Hank had dragged in here in the past had ever sounded this way, most of them had shouted a string of swears at him by this point.

That didn't mean Hank was impressed, though. Despite the boy's words being so formally spoken, Hank never did appreciate being sassed...unless he was the one doing it, of course.

"Oh, you don't see the point, huh?" He narrowed his eyes, propping his arms back on the desk. "Well, okay, how's about this for a point-we've been here for nearly four hours now, and you haven't told us anything that is either going to help you or doom you. I think, in that instance, we're allowed to repeat our questions as much as we want. Understand?"

Surprisingly, this brought no response from the kid. He didn't even nod, only shifting his eyes down to the mug in his lap. Sighing exasperatedly, Hank moved his hands off the desk long enough to lean forward.

"Look, it isn't like we're asking much from you. Hell, I understand if you're tired by now, but the fact is, if you don't tell us anything, then we can't do anything to help you." Still nothing. "You hear me? You say nothing, and your ass is grass. You'll still be just as guilty as you were when we found you. You answer a few questions, then maybe there's a chance we can figure something out."

To say his patience was wearing thin was a grand understatement, because silence was the only thing the two were exchanging now. Resisting the urge to sigh again, Hank started to push his seat back and was about to get up, when something stopped him.

"Okay."

Startled by his sudden reply, Hank sat back down in his seat, pushing it back forward to the desk. Alright, not huge progress but at least they were getting somewhere.

"Okay? Okay...great. Uh…" He searched his desk momentarily, trying to see where he'd misplaced his own notepad earlier. A pen was easy to find, he grabbed that from the clay cup that most of his pens and pencils sat in, but the rest of the desk held so much clutter it was nearly impossible to find where that goddamn notepad had vanished to.

"Is this what you're looking for, Sheriff?" He looked over to see the kid had pulled the notepad from underneath a now-falling pile of mini-chip bags and crumpled pieces of paper, and was holding it out to him. Hank blinked, then quickly accepted it, grunting out something closing to a "thank you", but not quite discernible enough to be taken as one.

"Alright, let's try this again. I'm gonna ask you the same shi-stuff, that my deputies were askin' you, and this time, you're gonna at least try and give me some answers, you got that?"

"Got it."

"Good." Hank flipped over to a clean page, one that wasn't covered in scribbles he'd more than likely filled the others with when he was either bored or drunk. "Uh...okay, let's start with something easy. What's your name?"

He wasn't sure why the kid hadn't told them before, when that was the easiest question in the universe that one could ever answer. Granted, he was still a bit shook up when he came here, so maybe a lot of his silence had been due to that. And besides hating the thought of talking to himself, Hank also hated the thought of talking to Gavin, so that in itself was understandable.

"Connor." Ah, finally. A name to the face, at least he didn't have to refer to him as "the kid" anymore. "Connor Martin."

Hank screwed the cap off of his pen, pressing it to the paper; though it took a couple of tries to try writing anything as he hadn't realized that this pen was drying out.

"Connor Martin...that's Connor spelled with an o-r, right?"

"Correct."

"Gotcha." Hank wrote that down, though when he was met with only imprints of the pen, cursed under his breath and decided to grab another one from the cup. "How old are you, Connor?"

"Sixteen." That answer had surprised Hank, with his lanky, small frame, he'd nearly thought Connor was around fourteen or fifteen. Not to mention the extreme case of baby-face wasn't helping much either.

"Okay then, Connor. You wanna tell me what you, a sixteen-year old boy, was doing standing out in a bar's back alley past 7:00 at night?"

This was where he expected things to go quiet, which they did, for a moment. The confliction and hesitance Chris had mentioned, and that Hank himself was now seeing, was all back on Connor's face, as he went straight back to staring down at the contents of his drink, which he really hadn't even touched all that much either.

"Hey, don't go quiet on me. You said you'd try and give me answers, remember?" Hank reminded him, dismayed to find the new pen he had grabbed was also going dry. He grumbled, reaching to grab a new one for what he hoped was the last time. "What am I left to assume if you don't answer? That you were actually planning on selling those drugs to someone?"

At this, Connor's head shot back up, with alarmed defense written all over his face.

"I wasn't! I mean, I was, but-"

"But what?"

"But-I-" He stammered, thumb going back to tapping on the mug's handle. "I didn't want to sell them, it wasn't my idea, they weren't-"

"And they weren't your drugs either, yeah, I knew that already." Hank finished writing and looked up, with a serious expression. "What are you trying to say then? That someone just so happened to hand these drugs off on you and demand you sell them? Is that it?"

"Yes!" Connor's mouth snapped shut as soon as he replied, and it looked like he was about to sink back into the idle state he'd been in at the interrogation room. "...I mean, yes sir."

It was amazing what a contrast his former words had been to the ones he'd just said, when just a minute ago, he'd practically been shouting in defense. Now, he'd just quieted down, like he was worried he'd just broken some sort of rule. And Hank had thought his differing mannerisms had been odd enough, but then he just had to go and add to it with his sudden vocal change.

 _Fuck...there really was something off about this kid._

He wondered if that bruise on the right side of his face had anything to do with it. He really did wonder. After all, this wouldn't have been the first time someone had came in claiming innocence all while bearing a bruise somewhere on their face…

Shit. He didn't know why that thought hadn't occurred to him sooner. That would actually explain a whole lot, and Hank had to internally berate himself for not noticing sooner. But in his defense, it had been a very long night thus far and he wasn't bound to notice everything straight away, especially when there was still a headache lingering somewhere in the back of his head.

"Alright, let's say I believe you…" Hank said, sitting his pen down. "Then what's actually going on here, Connor? What aren't you telling me?"

"I believe I've told you everything, Sher-"

"No, no. You've told me a few things, but not enough to get you off the hook." He held up both hands, interrupting Connor just as soon as the boy had begun to speak. "Look, kid, it's been a long night, and I've got an early hangover coming on. Can't you just make this a little bit easier, for both our sakes?"

Connor's only response was to take a long sip out of his mug, that he had just now finally decided to try drinking out of. He'd probably ran out of other idle behaviors to do, or at least, one's that wouldn't make him look too bothered. Hank sighed, shutting his notepad.

"Nevermind, I'll make it easier, then." he said, pushing the notepad aside to where it nearly bumped over his keyboard. "Let's backtrack for a second-you said someone handed the drugs over to you, made you sell 'em for them. Is that right?"

"Yes." Connor set the mug back down.

"Okay then. Assuming that this person wasn't just your run-of-the-mill dealer and that all you are in this ordeal is an unwilling accomplice…" _This was such a far-fetched thing to assume, what if he was wrong? He could be wrong, the kid could've just slipped in the rain and busted his head, he could be totally off here._ "Did this same person also give you that?"

The pen back in his hand, he gestured towards Connor's bruise with it, raising an eyebrow. Connor looked startled at this question, only for a moment however, before composing himself and shaking his head.

"N-no. No, that was my fault."

"It was?"

"Yes. I wasn't being careful, so it was my fault."

Well, he didn't exactly sound like he was lying, but it didn't sound like he was being entirely truthful either. Hank could detect some honesty in his voice, but the way he'd said it made it sound like there was more the story than what he had just told him. And there probably was more, it had been an extremely vague answer, after all.

"You've gotta stop giving me vague answers, Connor." The pulsating throb that had plagued him during the previous interrogation was back, gnawing at the back of his skull with a grand annoyance. He was surprised there weren't any stars swimming his vision right now. "I don't think you understand the severity of your fuckin' situation here, and I'm not explainin' it again, either. If you haven't gotten it by now, then I don't think you ever will."

Hank scooted his chair back, preparing to stand up from the desk, just as he had before. Only this time, he was intent on leaving the room, and stepping far, far away outside. For a minute, he'd really thought that he'd been getting somewhere and now, it looked like they were back to square one. He needed a minute to step away and recollect, maybe give Connor a chance to mull over his defense.

He was halfway to the door when, like last time, Connor's voice caused him to stop.

"Wait!"

Turning back around, he saw that Connor had shot up from his own seat, the mug now sitting there instead. Even though he briefly looked like he was about to change his mind and sit back down, Connor walked around the chair, arms hanging stiffly at his sides.

"Sheriff, I'm sorry. I understand what's going on, I really do. But…"

"But what?"

"But there's a reason I'm not being entirely truthful." His arms shifted behind his back, hands presumably folding. "You see, someone did hit me. Someone-the same person who wanted me to sell the drugs off for them, they hit me when I said no…"

He trailed off for a minute, but Hank didn't say anything just yet. It still seemed like there was more he was about to say.

"... but, it was still my fault. They only hit me because I wasn't being obedient. I should've just done what they asked in the first place."

What he was saying was not at all comforting to hear, especially with how calm he sounded. Hank wouldn't call it getting anywhere; sure, it might be a start, but this raised some troublesome questions. With how often he'd heard this talk in his line of duty, he knew it shouldn't bother him, but...still, to hear someone calmly state that they deserved to be smacked around was always disturbing, nonetheless.

Or he could be overthinking this, entirely. Either way, this was definitely starting to explain a few things.

"Whoa...okay, no. No, whoever it was was asking you to do something illegal, you had a right to refuse." Hank frowned and crossed his arms, taking a few steps closer to the boy. "You shouldn't talk like that."

"But I should. It isn't right to be disobedient, it's just better to do whatever you're told and to not question it."

"Who the fuck told you that?"

"Amanda-I mean, Ms. Stern. She's my caseworker." Connor remained unmoving from where he stood at the back of the chair, still enough to where someone might mistake him for a dummy. "It's what she tells all the kids back at the home. She says it's the only way we'd ever find permanent homes, since, you know...no one really wants a disobedient kid."

"Huh...well I have a few choice words for your caseworker then, because that's bullshit." This wasn't what Hank had been expecting to happen at all, not these kinds of answers. He felt like he'd better off going back to vague answers territory, that he could've handled in his current state. But with his headache coming back, and he was sure it was from all the coffee this time, he didn't think he was ready to deal with whatever else Connor was about to say.

 _Wasn't like he had much choice, though._

"Don't swear."

"What?"

"She says not to swear either…"

"Fuc-" Hank stopped himself, reaching up to facepalm instead. "Okay, I think I get what's going on here, kid. But that still doesn't answer my next question."

He looked back up, frowning still.

"Whoever hit you, hit you because you weren't...obedient, or some shi-some crap, right? You never said who it was...so, who was it?"

"I...don't recall." Connor's hands unfolded, and he turned away from Hank, reaching back down to retrieve his mug from the chair. "They did hit me pretty hard, Sheriff, I don't remember much."

"Are you serious-" Hank wanted to facepalm again, but refrained from doing so. "Alright, well, that's great. That's real great, when you do remember you be sure and tell me!"

He finished his trek to the door, swinging it open. He could hear Connor getting up again, but paid it no mind, and instead stepped out of his office and out into the department, where, just like this morning, Amelia looked to be the only person there...even though he could've sworn he'd told Ben to tell her it was alright for her to go home. In this case, he wasn't too mad about it, given the current situation.

"Hey, Amelia?" She'd been looking at something on her phone before Hank came up to her desk, immediately looking up at the sound of his voice.

"Yeah, Hank, what's up?"

"I need you to try and get ahold of a Ms. Stern...uh, Amanda Stern, I think. Can you do that?"

"Sure, I can try." Amelia swerved her chair over to her computer, also picking up the phone next to it. "Who is she, though?"

"Connor's caseworker. Look, I just want ya to tell her what's going on and-" Hank turned around, and was cut off mid-sentence when he was greeted with the sight of Connor standing right in front of him.

"Jesus Christ-" He moved his hand away from his heart, exhaling but also scowling. "Agh, Connor, what the fuck are you doing?"

"Why are you calling Ms. Stern?" Connor didn't seemed at all moved by the fact he'd nearly given the older man a heart attack, instead speaking with the most emotion Hank had heard in his voice all evening. Even if it sounded like he was trying to mask it, there was worry there. He sounded worried.

"I-she's your caseworker, Connor, you said it yourself. I think we need to let her know what happened-"

"What? N-no, you can't do that, she'll be upset with me!"

"Yeah, no shit she'll be upset with you. That's just something you're going to have to deal with." Hank grabbed Connor by the arm, moving him away from the desk as Amelia was now dialing in the number on the phone.

"No, you don't understand! Please!" Connor tried his hardest to yank away, and managed to do so after three attempts. "She'll really be upset with me-I'll be punished!"

"I understand perfectly, kid, but you've gotta calm down." Hank made an attempt to grab Connor back, but was unable to do so as he held onto his freed arm tightly, close to his chest, and almost stepped back into one of the desks as he backed away. He grew quiet, as he looked over to the desk where it looked like Amelia had been successful in contacting his caseworker.

It was an awkward two minutes of silence. Hank had had far too many of these tonight and was quick to speak before it got even more awkward, or anything else happened.

"Connor...I...where do you live?"

Connor looked over to Hank, blinking in confusion.

"Why do you want to know?"

"So I can take you home, that's why." Hank walked back into his office long enough to retrieve his coat, putting it on as he came back out. Connor's confusion moved from his eyes onto the rest of his face, as he seemed to be processing what he'd just been told.

"Wh...you mean you aren't throwing me in a cell?"

"I-what? No!" Hank didn't even have to ask what gave Connor that idea, Gavin had certainly been loud enough for him to hear when he was proclaiming that idea. "Christ, that's not even close to what I was planning to do. Look at that clock, Connor, it's getting late, wouldn't you just like to go home and sleep?"

"But what about-"

"Forget about it." Hank slid his arms into the coat sleeves, huffing. "Considering that you didn't _actually_ succeed in selling off that red ice, I'm letting you go with a warning, this time. And I don't usually do that, so consider yourself lucky."

"I...thanks-"

"But," He took a step towards Connor, the tone of his voice causing him to completely step back into the desk-which Hank soon realized was Gavin's desk, because Connor had bumped into it with enough force to knock over one of his prized mugs. "If I ever catch you behind anymore bars, or if I find out that everything you told me was a buncha' shit, then I'd suggest going ahead and packing an overnight bag. You got that?"

"Yes, sir." Connor practically squeaked, despite his usual maintaining of steady eye contact. He even looked spooked, somewhat, further adding to the worry he already held of his caseworker being contacted. Adding to it, this really was the most emotion Hank had seen out of him since he'd pulled his gun on him in the back alley…

 _The gun._

Hm. Yeah, he'd just as rather forget about that for the time being.

Stepping back, Hank nodded, zipping his coat up.

"Okay, awesome..now, uh, where was it you said you lived?"

"I didn't say anything about that."

"Hey, don't get fuckin' smart with me." Hank scolded, as he and Connor headed towards the exit. He grabbed the door handle, pulling one of the big glass doors open. "I want an address, not your attitude. Now where do you live? That um, that home you mentioned?"

"No." Connor stepped out first, fiddling with his hands as he did so. "Not in awhile, I haven't."

"Okay, then where?"

"0815 Cage Boulevard. A ways past the supermarket."

"Huh...right, I know where that is." They stepped out into the cold, right around the same time Gavin and Tina drove by in their squad car, no doubt still on patrol. Hank took his keys out, his car letting off a beep as he pressed the button to unlock it. Opening the door to the passenger side, he waited until Connor had slipped inside and slammed it shut, heading back around the other side.

He noticed that Connor was shivering as he settled into the driver's seat, also recalling how the boy's hoodie and coat had been completely soaked when they'd first saw him. It was a little pathetic, even if he was sitting up straight, his form looked completely shriveled. It almost reminded Hank of the time he'd taken Cole ice fishing all those years ago. Being the overly eager child he was, the boy had gotten a little too excited at the sight of his fish line bobbing up and down, and had wandered out onto the ice, which had not at all been strong enough to support his weight-even if he was only a tiny six-year old at the time. He'd been soaked and shivering to the bone when Hank had managed to rescue him and carry him into the car, and he'd spent the entire ride home in a huddled heap underneath his father's coat.

Minus the coat, he'd looked like Connor had right now. Cold. Cold and miserable.

Another wave of pain from his headache brought him out of that memory, causing him to realize that he hadn't yet started the car. Fumbling with the keys in his hand, he shoved them into the ignition and the car started up.

 _No, no this wasn't the same. This was different, this was entirely different._

He pressed several buttons on the console, making sure he hadn't accidentally left the AC system on cool like he had when he'd left this morning. Once the warm air started to fill the vehicle and thawed away the bits of ice that had settled on his windshield, Hank brought the car out of its resting state and pulled it out of the parking lot, swerving onto the slick road as Connor sat beside him in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes Hank forgot how quiet it got at night. Downtown was a different story, he couldn't recall a time where that place was ever empty save for that time people were barred off because of construction work. Even as he'd driven through tonight, it had still appeared that many of Lovington's citizens were out on the streets doing God knows what, he only hoped if it was anything illegal that his deputies could deal with it for now.

As soon as he'd turned at the supermarket, however, it was like magic. The streets and roads were suddenly deserted, save for a few cars driving past his own. With it now pushing 11:00, no lights were visible in many of the houses, save for a few. Connor, having been silent, the entire ride, had only spoken up once or twice after they'd arrived at Cage Boulevard, requesting that Hank go ahead and drop him off.

"My foster parents are probably asleep by now, we might wake them up." he'd tried to insist, further adding that the house wasn't far. But Hank had been down this street enough times to know that, even if it was emptier than downtown currently was, it was, in its own right, a very unsafe place to be walking through late at night. He didn't think this had ever been a good neighborhood, not even before his days as sheriff, and for that he'd declined Connor's request.

"Whatever you say, Sheriff…" Had been the last thing he'd said, before going quiet again. Hank had eyed him, unable to see much in the dark of the car, but he was glad to see that he had stopped shivering, at least.

They passed several more houses until coming upon a small grey one. Connor, who had been sitting back in his seat, leaned forward at the sight of it, pointing.

"It's that one, right there." His voice sounded more like a mumble, and he shrunk back into his seat as soon as he was done speaking, clasping his hands back together. Hank nodded and pulled up next to it, settling the car into park. He reached to undo his own seatbelt while Connor undid his, looking up as he was about to open his car door.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute." Connor seized up, quickly releasing the door handle and glancing back over to Hank, who was taking the keys out of ignition. "What do you think you're doing? Wait for me, will ya?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I...huh?"

"You heard me, wait up." He shoved the keys into his pocket, grabbing the other door handle. "What, did you really think I was just gonna drop you off? Why else would I have parked the car?"

"But...my parents…" Connor's voice trailed off as he glanced between Hank, and the house next to them. The lights were on and there looked to be a couple of visible figures moving about in the front window.

"What about 'em? Doesn't look like they're asleep to me." Hank pointed out, cold air filling the car as he pushed his door open. Crap, with how warm the car had gotten to be, he'd almost forgotten how freezing it was outside. He'd thought to dress in layers when he'd gotten up today but in his hungover stupor had decided not to.

Yeah.

Not one of his brightest decisions...alongside a lot of other bad decisions that somehow always found a way to come back and haunt him.

"Besides, as much I don't wanna, I gotta tell 'em what happened. " Connor's eyes widened at this, but Hank hadn't noticed, having gotten out of the car. "I dunno how long you've been out, but in my experience with shit like this, they're gonna want answers from you, Connor."

He circled the vehicle, reaching the passenger's side where he reached for the door.

"And given the lack of answers you gave me, tonight, I doubt you'll be able to answer 'em on your own."

He'd only managed to crack the door open a tad, surprised to find it being met with resistance. Rolling his eyes, he gave it another yank, succeeding to pull it open a bit more, but was also met with Connor's wide, distressed eyes. Looking down, Hank could see that the boy had seized his side of the door handle with a death grip, clearly having no intentions to release it.

"What the hell are you doin'? Come on, let go-" Hank gave another rough yank, this time causing Connor to accidentally hit his face on the door. In the time he took to recover from this, Hank was able to open the door entirely, and, placing a hand on his hip, stared inside at him with a heavy frown.

"Connor, seriously? It can't be that warm in there anymore, what are you doing?"

"I-" Connor moved his hand from his nose, which was now a bright red thanks to the impact from the door. The more visible distress was gone from his face, eyes no longer wide. "I'm sorry, Sheriff, I don't know what came over me."

He stepped out of the car, all while Hank continued to stare in what he wasn't sure was bewilderment or confusion. Ever since him and Connor's little conversation back at the department, he was beginning to form a small idea of what exactly might be causing these jarring mood shifts, but that didn't mean he was any closer to figuring it out. That was something he would've gladly taken up with that Ms. Stern woman, had he been the one making the phone call.

Now that this thought had come back to him, he wouldn't be surprised if that was also why Connor had suddenly seized up so much at the idea of leaving the car. He'd been talking like he was used to being hit for disobedience, maybe he was expecting that to happen as soon he stepped into the door.

Hank hoped that wasn't the case. He hoped that it was only another one of Connor's mindsets and not what was actually happening to him in that house. He'd seen his fair share of abuse and foster kid cases in his early years of being a police officer, and while Connor's situation was close to being identical to a few he'd dealt with before, there was just a small part of him that was desperately hoping that this wasn't like those times, and that for once, it would all just be his paranoia at work.

But then again, this was a bad neighborhood. You never knew what to expect here.

"Uh...sure. That's okay." Hank turned from Connor, clearing his throat. "Let's just get inside, it's cold out here."

"Yes, sir."

The two walked away from the car, heading up to the front steps from what Hank could see, didn't look any too steady. The trees in the yard were barren-as most trees were at this time of year-and their leaves blanketed the ground, sidewalk included, and crunched underneath their feet. Nearing the house, Hank also took notice of the dead plants sprouting out of what had probably once been a flower garden. Dark, twisty vines had curled up onto the porch and up against a window, which was further illuminated by the flashing lights from the television that was hardly noticeable through the mildly cracked glass.

What was more noticeable, were the two people inside. Neither of them had seemed to have taken notice, or had even heard the car pulling up, one preoccupied with shouting at the television while the other stood up, lifting what looked to be a small infant out of a playpen. They were saying something to the person on the couch, but Hank wasn't able to tell what. He wasn't particularly good at reading lips, and even if he was, this window was far too cracked and frosted for him to do so.

He followed Connor up the wobbly steps to the front porch, which creaked and groaned due to the combination of their weight. Even more leaves coated it, but were shortly swept away by a cold wind that revealed a dirty welcome mat in front of the door. Connor stepped atop it, preparing to grab the knob, but he didn't do so right away. He instead stood there with his hand extended mid-air, then looked over to Hank, who was standing nearby. It was a silent exchange, neither of them saying a word to the other, before Connor looked back to the door, and twisted it open.

The repugnant odor of dollar-store air freshener and the scent stains of leftover food hit Hank's nostrils the minute he stepped into the door frame. Connor walked ahead of him without a bother, but it took Hank a moment to will himself to follow. As cold as it was, the air was much more clean outside and he felt he'd much rather freeze to death than have to be greeted with that scent again. He didn't even think his own house ever smelled that bad, but maybe that was because he'd taken to using those scented garbage bags per Amelia's suggestion.

" _If you're gonna let the garbage pile up, you might as well make sure it smells nice."_ she'd said. That was perhaps the one time he'd been glad to take her advice. Not that it had helped entirely, but at least it wasn't a smell that would threaten to knock him out upon inhaling it.

A short, blonde woman soon emerged from the adjacent hallway of the living room they were standing in, presumably having been the one who'd walked off with the infant. Unlike the man on the couch, who had been heading into the kitchen when Hank and Connor had walked inside, she took immediate notice of them and stomped over, a furious glare aimed Connor's way.

"You! Where the hell have you been? We've been wait-" Her mouth popped shut at the notice of Hank standing next to him, and almost instantly, the glare melted into a slightly harsher one. What was no doubt faux worry washed over her face and she pulled Connor into a hug, though he stumbled forward into it very stiffly.

"-We've-we've been waiting up, all night for you! We were so worried!" Just like her facial features, her voice had also shifted into that of a more concerned one, as she caressed her hand against Connor's back. Hank could only imagine the expression the boy must have right now, given how resistant he'd seemed to the hug in the first place.

When she'd pulled away from him, she smiled over at Hank with gratitude that was just as pretend as the worry before. He wanted to groan at it-he'd been in too many instances like this before and was too good at reading people by now. His ex had always said that was his curse, which he had only laughed at then. Now, he found himself agreeing with her.

"I can't thank you enough, officer. I was just about to convince my husband to go out and look for him before you showed up." The woman was saying, one arm remaining wrapped around Connor's shoulder. Connor on the other hand, looked like he wanted to be anywhere than underneath her grasp.

"It's uh, it's sheriff. Sheriff Anderson." Hank corrected, taking his hands out of his coat pockets. He'd forgotten he'd put them in there while they were walking up to the house, he blamed the smell for making him forget. "And you're welcome, Mrs…?"

"Phelps. Heather Phelps."

"Right. Well Mrs. Phelps, I know its getting kinda late," He shifted on both his feet, almost losing his balance on the knotted-up bunch in the carpet (which, wasn't a knotted-up bunch at all, but a cat toy that had been hastily shoved underneath it). "But, if it isn't any problem, I'd like to talk with you and your husband for a few minutes."

The smile disappeared from Mrs. Phelps' face. She moved her arm away from the quietly relieved Connor, folding it into the other.

"What about?"

"Your foster son, ma'am. You see, we found him at-"

"Heather, that dumbass old cat got outside again!" Hank was interrupted by a tall, slovenly dressed man, who he assumed was Mr. Phelps, who came walking out of the kitchen-fists bared and swinging at his sides. "Fuck, I step outside for one fucking minute to take a smoke and that little bastard think it's free game-"

His fists unfurled, his rant cutting off upon seeing Hank.

"What the hell is this?" Before Hank had a chance to restart his explanation, the man had locked his eyes on Connor and was starting towards him. "Don't tell me he's here because of you, what the fuck did you do?"

"I-I'm sorry-"" Connor looked like he wanted to stumble away, only managing to take one step before he was grabbed by the arm. Hank immediately noticed how the man's hand had seized onto Connor like a vice, internally wincing at the sight. In fact, his entire hand was nearly wrapped entirely around the boy's skinny arm, looking like he could break it at any given moment. Hank had seen it before, and he hated that he had. He could recall far too many times where he'd called someone's parent in only to watch the child be roughly handled.

It made him sick. He would've never dreamt of grabbing Cole like that, not in a million years. It was one thing to be cross with your kid but Christ, holding them tight enough to hurt them was just downright cruel. So maybe it was that thought that caused Hank to step forward and pull Connor away, despite some resistance from the other man's unwillingness to let go.

"Hey, hands off the kid, will ya? He's had a bad night." He couldn't help but snap at Mr. Phelps, who backed off at the tone of his voice. "Now look, Mr. Phelps, I'm guessing? Yeah, if you'd just hold on for one minute, I was just about to tell your wife what was going on. I'd suggest holding off anything else until then."

He looked over at where he'd thought Connor had gone to stand beside him, but instead turned to find the boy standing behind him, almost like he was hiding. Not that Hank could blame him, as though he'd backed off, Mr. Phelps still looked ready to clock him the minute he stepped out.

"You okay?" Hank had to check, Connor had gone stiff ever since they'd gotten inside, but he looked like he was barely breathing now. He did nod, which gave Hank enough ease to turn back to his conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Phelps.

"Um, how about we all sit down?" Mrs. Phelps offered, sounding as though she was trying her hardest to be polite. Her words had came out more forced than anything, but that was a given considering the weight of what was currently happening. The adults all seated themselves on the scratchy plaid sofa while Connor awkwardly perched nearby on a rickety rocking chair, sitting up and straight with his hands folded back in his lap, for what must've been the thousandth time tonight. He looked nearly ready to get up and bolt out of the room, from what Hank could tell, but there was something keeping him put.

 _Probably that stupid obedience regime that Ms. Stern's beaten into him._

"Uh," Hank looked away from Connor, back to where Mrs. Phelps was attempting to smile at him. Mr. Phelps still had a death glare on his face, not surprising. "So, Sheriff, could I um, get you anything? Before we talk, that is, maybe you'd like a coffee?"

"Nah, no thanks. I've had my share for today." Hank shifted on the uncomfortable mattress, trying to get comfortable. He tried to prop his leg atop the other, but felt a spring pop beneath him as he did so. "We're all seated already, anyways. It's better I just get to the point."

Another spring popped as he continued to shift around. Deciding to give up on trying to find a comfy position, Hank decided to rest his arm on the couch arm rest instead. He wasn't sure where to start, exactly, a lot had happened today as was, this was something he hadn't accounted for. And while his headache was gratefully withering by now, a slight pain still throbbed at the back of his head.

"Erm..yeah, so, as I was saying before…" He paused, shifting his eyes at Mr. Phelps. "Before we were interrupted, I was just about to tell you-and I-I don't want to cause any upset by saying this, we, that is, one of my deputies and I-"

Images from earlier that night came back to him. Walking out of the bar, the rain slowing down. Heading to the back gate, hearing the footsteps behind them. Connor's voice calling out.

"One of my deputies and I, we um, we were just leaving Jimmy's Bar downtown, when we found your foster son there."

"What?" Mrs. Phelps looked surprised, while her husband looked almost entirely disinterested at the revelation. This was ridiculous, regardless of whether this was his child or not, he should've seemed a little more alert than he actually was. That and his unnecessarily rough hold on Connor had already earned him two strikes on Hank's list of people he wouldn't mind punching. He imagined it wouldn't be long before strike three came along.

Mrs. Phelps, on the other hand, at least seemed to making some kind of attempt to show she was invested. She'd pressed a hand to her chest, no doubt feigning concern.

"Well...what on Earth was he doing there?"

"You tell me, ma'am. You're supposed to be responsible for him, aren't you?" The feigned concern switched to annoyance and Hank continued. "Because if you are, let me just be the first to congratulate you on doing a horrible job."

Now Mr. Phelps seemed alert, jolting forward at Hank's apparent insult of him and his wife.

"Now wait a minute, what are you trying to say?" He nearly pushed Mrs. Phelps aside, who in turn held out an arm in front of him as a means of restraint. She looked bothered by her husband's reaction. "Let me tell you something, Sheriff, we've been this kid's legal guardian for six months now. You can't call us irresponsible or else he would've been taken away from us, by now."

"You think you aren't irresponsible?" Hank cocked his head at the other man, almost wanting to laugh in disbelief. "Okay then, let me ask _you_ something, Mr. Phelps. Do you think it's responsible to let a sixteen-year old kid go out by himself, at night, no less, and for him to end up behind a bar trying to peddle off illegal narcotics?"

This silenced Mr. Phelps almost instantly, genuine horror overcoming his face. Even Mrs. Phelps, who'd been doing a wonderful acting job so far, looked just as upset. Connor remained as still and quiet as ever on the rocking chair, not uttering a single word. All eyes except for Hank's were on him, as an uneasy, heavy silence took the place of the previously loud conversation.

"You can't be serious...he wasn't actually…" Mrs. Phelps gasped, while her husband kept his eyes locked on Connor. There was something uncomfortable about the way the man was silently glaring at him, but either Connor hadn't noticed or didn't want to notice, because his eyes were staring right past the group of adults at nothing in particular. He looked like an animal on alert, waiting for the right moment to scamper away.

"He wasn't actually doing that, was he?" She glanced back to Hank, eyebrows creased in concern. "I mean, we didn't-he-"

"I wish I could say no, Mrs. Phelps, but unfortunately, that was the case."

"But-that's not-" Stammering, Mrs. Phelps stopped a minute to presumably compose herself before continuing, taking a deep breath. "I don't understand, we only sent him out for some milk. The supermarket is only a short ways from here, how did he...I mean, the drugs...why would he be-"

"Again, I'd hoped you would tell me." Hank sighed, feeling his headache coming back. Whether it was from caffeine or stress this time, he had no idea. "He's your responsibility, after all, I thought you'd be able to offer some insight. You say you sent him out for milk?"

"Yes!" Mrs. Phelps exchanged a nervous glance with her husband, swallowing down a visible lump in her throat. She was running her hands along her pants, leaving behind faint sweat stains. "Yes, we um, we didn't have any for breakfast tomorrow morning. I didn't see the harm in it really, like I said, the store is right down the street from us."

Something in this story wasn't adding up. It might've been because of her anxious mannerisms but Hank wasn't buying anything she said. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen Connor watching her as she'd spoken, his eyes squinting in what he could only guess was disbelief. Despite this, he hadn't shouted out any protests to state that she was lying, so Hank had no choice but to continue with his questions.

Which, he didn't want to do. If his job obligations didn't require him to do this kind of shit then he would've left after making sure Connor was alright.

"Right down the street...okay, and you didn't think there'd be any harm in it?" He leaned forward, resting both arms on his knees. "Mrs. Phelps, I hope you understand that you live in a rather bad neighborhood. Sending him out by himself was probably the most unsafe thing you could've done. In fact, I don't see why you couldn't have just gone to buy the milk yourself if you needed it that badly."

"I…" Mm, he wasn't surprised that she was hesitating. He had a thought that that question would stump her. "Joe….my husband, he had a headache. He gets really bad headaches, Sheriff, would you really expect me to leave while he was in pain?"

Even Mr. Phelps looked like he was rolling his eyes at that statement, and Hank would've done the same if he wasn't trying his hardest to stay patient. He noted that the other man hadn't really said all that much since taking insult to Hank's earlier comment and decided to turn to his attention on him, not that he expected any truth from him but he was sure he was going to keel over if he had to listen to anymore of Mrs. Phelps' bland excuses.

"Mr. Phelps," He looked at Hank, looking just as disinterested as he as he had been before. "Care to make any comments?"

"Comments?" Sniffing, Mr. Phelps rubbed at his nose and leaned forward himself. "Yeah, sure. How come this little shit is sitting in our living room instead of a jail cell right now?"

Connor seemed to jolt a bit at his derogatory comment, but still said nothing. Hank fought back the urge to snap at the man, but even so, his voice came out sounding louder and more pissed off than he'd meant it to sound.

"Because, Mr. Phelps, if it interests you, he didn't even manage to sell the drugs off. And from what he's told me, they might have not been his in the first place."

The disinterest on Mr. Phelps face was replaced by a look of alarm.

"What did he tell you?"

Oh, so now he was interested. If Hank was a more spiteful man (which he could be, at times), he would've just left it at that and gotten up to leave, but he knew that wouldn't look good. Not for him, or Connor. Who knew if he was better off telling or not telling, but he was starting to get the feeling that either way it wasn't going to end well for the boy.

"Not much. Just that the drugs weren't his and that someone else gave them to him to sell." Hank sat back up, bringing his hand to the back of his head in order to rub at the headache that was making another attempt to come back. If this conversation went on any longer, then he could safely confirm that this headache was because of stress and not from his huge caffeine intake.

"Did he say who?" Mrs. Phelps was speaking now, mouth pressed into a tight line.

"No ma'am, he did not. Apparently he doesn't even remember." Hank eyed Connor, who'd lowered his head. "He said that...whoever it was, hit him after he initially refused and all he remembers after that is being in the alley. Now, I have no idea who that could've been, so that's what I was hoping to ask you two."

He brought his hand back out, resting it and the other atop the couch.

"Do you know of anyone who might've been responsible? Any friends, maybe people from school he hangs out with?"

"Oh, no….I don't think so. Actually, he doesn't even go to school." Mrs. Phelps nodded towards a stack of books on a nearby shelf. "We homeschool him, with curriculum offered by his group home. Even then, he doesn't go out nearly enough to really know anybody."

"Huh...I see…well how about-"

"Look Sheriff, I don't mean to be rude but is this going to take much longer? We're supposed to be having a visit from the social worker tomorrow and we were plannin' on being in bed by now." She cut him off, tone of voice having shifted from concern to annoyance. "We already told you we don't know anyone who could've asked him, isn't that enough for you?"

"Not nearly." Hank shifted upon feeling yet another loose spring beneath him in the mattress. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Phelps, but you can never be too sure in situations like this. I just want to be thorough, that's all."

"Well, you can be more thorough when we have stuff to tell you." Mr. Phelps said as he got up from his seat, alongside his wife who ended up hastily leaving the group at the sound of a crying baby coming from another room. "Fact is, we just don't right now, okay? So unless you have any questions that we can actually answer, then I suggest you leave. Like my wife said, we were plannin' on being in bed by now, and it's getting late."

Hank looked up at the man, contemplating if he wanted to bother asking anymore questions or not. He had had more questions, but given that Mr. Phelps had told him to only ask if they were questions they could answer, he decided against it. These people weren't going to tell him anything else, he'd talked to people like this enough to know that all he was going to get was more phony excuses and lies.

That, and he was eager for any excuse to finally leave this place.

He'd been eager to leave the first minute he'd stepped inside and been hit with that awful smell, but after seeing the way Mr. Phelps had handled Connor...he wasn't so sure he felt okay leaving him here. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about that right now, while he had his suspicions, that's exactly all they could be for now.

So, not even bothering to force a polite smile, Hank stood up.

"Fair enough. I guess I've kept you up long enough."

Mr. Phelps only grunted at this, his arms folded. He turned his head at a soft "meow" and scratching that was coming from the back door and left the room, going to let back in the cat he'd been yelling about when Hank had first met him. This left Hank and Connor in the room alone, and as Hank prepared to leave, he allowed himself one more look at the kid.

He was looking up at him. That numb fear was back in his eyes, but there was something different about it this time. Something that seemed to be pleading for help, something that made Hank feel like even more of a heel for leaving him. And all Hank could do was offer him an awkward pat on the shoulder, and despite his being so stiff, he flinched.

"Erm...goodnight. Take care of yourself, I guess." He gruffly murmured, receiving no reply in return. Connor only remained seated in the same chair, continuing to watch Hank as the older man made his way to the front door, and left. There was a slight temptation to go back inside the minute he'd stepped out, but he ignored it, heading straight to his car without looking back once.

It was only when he'd seated himself inside his car that he dared to look again. He could just barely make out Connor standing at the window, which in-turn caused him to quickly look away and start his car back up. Once the old engine had roared to life, Hank turned the wheel and pulled away from the Phelps house, trying so much to ignore the thoughts that were now flooding his mind.

* * *

Connor kept both hands pressed to the window, watching as Sheriff Anderson's car backed away and drove off. He would've watched until the headlights had gone dim, but was promptly snagged by the hood of his jacket and tossed to the floor, where he landed hard and in a heap. Not even having a moment to compose himself, he looked up in time to see Joe coming back over, fists drawn and the anger he'd been holding back during the sheriff's visit all over his face.

He'd known this was coming. He'd known this was going to happen the very minute Sheriff Anderson had repeated what he'd said to him.

 _Why why why why oh god why-I told the truth, I told the truth the best I could. I didn't even say that much-_

These words and more flooded Connor's thought process as he stayed frozen on the floor, hands gripping the rug tightly as if that would save him from what was coming next. But it didn't. It didn't help anything at all, only staying clutched in his hands as Joe grabbed him by the neck and roughly lifted him to his feet. It, too, fell in a heap, as Connor was forced to release it as-out of instinct-he reached up, trying desperately to free himself as Joe's hand was beginning to constrict his airway.

"You son of a bitch, what the fuck were you thinking? Huh?" Joe yelled at him as he gasped, choking on what little air he had left. He was then tossed across the room, straight into the very bookshelf Heather had pointed out to Hank. Several books fell out on top of him as he tried to not to push himself back up, but Joe was quick to step on top of him, his heavy work boot dropping down on Connor's back like a paperweight.

"Nuh-uh, I didn't tell you to get up. You stay down, you hear me?" He was kneeling, his work boot replaced by his hand, which held onto Connor's back with a tight ferocity. "You stay down until I tell you to get up, you got that?"

"Joe, please, I'm sorry-" Smack. Joe's fist collided with Connor's jaw, silencing him.

"Shut up! You've talked enough, already!" He was practically yelling into Connor's ear now, close enough for his hot, stinky breath to waft onto him as well. "What the fuck happened, Connor? Huh? What the fuck happened in that alley, it isn't like I was asking you to do rocket science. All I wanted was one simple thing, and you had to go and fuck that up! We could've used that money, Connor, I was going to get good money for that stuff!"

"Joe-" Try as he might, he couldn't stop the hot tears from brimming in his eyes, but was met with another fist to the face, which this time, hit his other eye. _Don't cry don't cry don't cry-oh god don't cry, you can't cry._ "Stop-sto-I didn't-"

"You didn't what? You didn't mean to fuck up?" Joe's grip on him grew harsher, voice louder, as he shook him violently."Too late for that! You've already lost the drugs, pissed off two of my friends, and talked to the goddamn sheriff. What else did you tell him, Connor? What else did you say?"

"Nothing!" Connor cried out, voice cracking in desperation. _Stop it stop it stop it stop it you aren't supposed to be acting this way, this isn't how Amanda said to act. She said to never cry to never cry to never cry-_ "I didn't say anything about you! I promise, I didn't Joe, I promise!"

By this point in their altercation, Heather had come back out from the girl's room to find her husband pinning their foster son down on the floor. She didn't look so bothered by it, more like aggravated, only standing there with both hands on her hips. Joe continued shouting things at Connor, whose face was now marred by the blossoming of several fresh bruises.

"Joe, he's had enough! You keep this up and you're gonna wake the baby up again!" She snapped at him, her words a momentary distraction and relief for Connor as Joe stopped shouting at him. "Hell, you're gonna wake all the kids up!"

"They can wake up, I don't care." Whoops, too soon. He was pulling Connor up by the back now, positioning him upright like a seal. Connor met Heather's uncaring gaze with his own, lower lip split and quivering. "You think I'm going to let this fucker get away with squealing on us? He needs to be taught a lesson, Heather!"

"Then do it quieter, for God's sake! You keep this up and the neighbors are gonna threaten to call the cops on us again!"

"Aw shut the fuck up, Heather. No one's gonna call the cops."

They bickered for about a minute before Heather stormed out, once again leaving Connor at Joe's mercy. He was dropped back to the floor, face first, and Joe stood back up. He didn't dare move, staying put to await the next hit that was surely about to befall him. But it didn't come straight away, and he wasn't sure why. He didn't look up to know, and he didn't hear anything that might tell him.

Footsteps. He heard footsteps, it must be Heather coming back. Had she finally had enough common sense to try and stop her husband, Connor wondered? He wondered that many times before, but just like those other times, he was wrong. He turned his face from the floor, eyes darting up to see Heather handing over what looked like a giant leather belt to her husband. He took it, folding it together as he looked down at Connor, jutting his chin out at him.

"Lift your shirt up." he ordered, and Connor obeyed. He didn't want to, but it wasn't like he was being offered any other choice that was remotely better. Pulling up his jacket, and shirt, he pressed his face back to the floor as Heather nonchalantly stepped over him and walked over to the couch, picking the remote back up from the coffee table.

"Now you're gonna be quiet while I do this, you hear?" Joe was cooly speaking to him now, and he could hear the belt snapping. "You so much as much squeak, and I'll break your entire back. Got it?"

Connor managed a nod, not before wincing at the sudden impact of the belt against his bare back. His fingers sprawled out, digging into the floor, as Joe continued to bring the belt down on him. Smack-smack-smack-again and again, he felt it, heard it, but he made no sound. Joe had said to make no sound, Joe had said to go out and sell the drugs, Joe had said to not say anything if he was asked-

He'd disobeyed enough tonight. He'd known this was going to happen. He should have said something-said something while Sheriff Anderson was talking, something, anything-

No.

He shouldn't dwell on this. He was only here now because of his own doing. This was his fault. This was all his fault. Again.

Maybe he would've been better off staying in a holding cell, after all.

* * *

A light snow had begun to fall by the time Hank pulled up in his driveway, which was not at all a welcome change from the rain, it only served as different weather to what Lovington had been entreated to for the past week and a half. But this and the cold were not the reasons for which he stayed seated in his car for several minutes.

He had other reasons. Many, many other reasons, in the form of the events of that day. He couldn't believe it had only been one day, when it felt like time had passed even slower. With the way he was feeling, it should be Friday already, but when he checked his phone, the date remained the same as ever. Monday, November 8th, 2018.

How had it only been one day? Too much had happened for it to have only been one day. Within the span of nearly 15 hours, he'd not only dealt with paperwork and files, but been called down to a crime scene to find a murder victim, only to find out said murder victim was dealing with red ice and that there was possibly another outbreak about to happen. And to top it all off, right when he thought he could go to Jimmy's Bar and drown his problems with whiskey, he just had to find a dumb kid in the back of the place trying to sell even more red ice.

And now he'd left that kid back in a possibly abusive situation, unable to do anything because he only had suspicions and not actual evidence.

One day. All this had happened in one fucking day. He couldn't believe it.

He moved his hands from where they'd still been clutching the steering wheel, covering his face as he heavily exhaled. Headaches and thoughts alike pressed at the back of his head, and exhaustion was threatening to pin down his already heavy eyelids. God, he needed sleep. He just wanted to sleep, and forget everything about this day, forget that there was a drug problem, forget about Connor…

But even as he got out of the car and dragged himself inside, he knew there would be no forgetting. His brain wasn't likely to let him do so, and knowing his luck all he would be forgetting would be a website password or some important case file information. It was often that he'd find himself wishing he had a selective memory, or perhaps a means of controlling what he could remember and forget.

In that regard, maybe he wouldn't be such an ill-tempered man all the time.

Sumo was all over him the instance he stepped into the house, barking and whining as he danced on his front two paws. He sniffed his owner intently as the man knelt down to lend him some affection in the form of a head rub, drooling and looking up at him with curious eyes. No doubt he could smell the contents of the Phelps house all over Hank, reminding him to throw these clothes in the laundry next chance he got.

"Yeah, reeks doesn't it?" He bitterly chucked, continuing to scratch the big canine behind his ears. "I know, I don't like it either. You look like you've had a better day than me, at least."

He gave Sumo one last pat on the head before standing back up, and shrugged his oversized coat off. He tossed it onto a living room chair as he walked to the kitchen, while Sumo headed into the living room. Another search of the fridge and cabinets sent another reminder to Hank that he also needed to buy groceries tomorrow, and thus he settled on pulling out a beer from the lone pack sitting in the fridge.

When he entered the living room, he found Sumo all settled on the far end of the couch, his large head resting on one of the tattered pillows. Hank sat next to him, giving the dog another scratch on the back before reaching for the television remote. He made it a point to avoid any news related stations and ended up settling on a channel that was showing Star Trek reruns.

Taking a long sip of his beer, he tried his best to settle into his usual nightly routine of watching enough television before passing out drunk, but found he was not able to do so tonight. These new added issues were the only thing he could think of, not the show in front of him, and not even his beer, which he absent-mindedly kept taking sips of.

The red ice was one thing. He'd just been hoping it was a small issue, that it had only been Lonnie and maybe one other guy involved. And whoever that other guy was, well, that's who had probably killed Lonnie. But now that he and Chris had found Connor with a bag of the stuff, something told him it was bigger than just Lonnie and the other guy.

There were too many things going on. Too many things happening. And the more he thought about it, the more he was beginning to dread work tomorrow. Someone else was bound to call in reporting some incident related to red ice, that or he'd end up finding another dealer by accident. He only hoped it wouldn't be Connor this time.

Connor...oh. Yeah, that was the other thing.

Despite his best efforts, the image of Connor's fear-consumed eyes had not left him as of yet. He'd seen that look come over the boy's eyes three times in total tonight-once when he'd pulled the gun on, second when he'd first spoken to him in his office, and third when he'd been saying goodbye to him.

He'd tried not to imagine what was going on over there now. Nothing good, he figured, not with how Mr. Phelps had been handling Connor earlier. He felt ill just thinking about it, and not even the bitter taste of his drink could help with that. Why hadn't he done something...he could've done something, not anything drastic but...he could've at least left a phone number with the kid or something. Just in case something like _that_ happened…

No.

It didn't matter. Even if he'd left a number there, there was a good chance Connor would still be at the mercy of his guardians...but then again, if he'd left the number, he could've….maybe he could've...

 _Fuck._

He needed to stop thinking about this, this wasn't any of his business!

Or was it?

He was the sheriff, after all, legally it was his business to do something, but what? No, there was too much going on already. He just needed to focus on one thing at a time, that was all. One thing at a time, one day at a time...and right now, the only thing he wanted to focus on was finishing this beer and going to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Connor stared at his reflection in the dirty mirror, his pajamas crumpled in a heap beside him as he stood shirtless at the sink. His choice shirt for the day lay draped over the counter, as he just stood there. Looking past the smudges, past the cracks, at himself. Swollen, blueish-purple bruises lined his pale face, one completely covering his left eye, another underneath his right, and one streaked down his chin. A small scab had also formed on his lower lip overnight, which had been split open in the final events preceding his bedtime.

 _Ugly._

 _That's what you get._

Just barely touching his face made him wince, and he quickly lowered his hand back to the cold sink. Picking up his shirt, he prepared to put it on, stopping as the fabric brushed against his back. Pain. He felt pain, and grimaced. Turning ever so slightly, he could see his back in the mirror now. It, like his face, was heavily scarred and bruised, several red stripes having made their home there as well, and about three to five large band-aids had been placed over the little cuts the buckle on Joe's belt had left.

He felt great hesitance in pulling his shirt on the rest of the way. The fabric was rough and was bound to irritate his uncovered injuries even further.

"Connor!"

He jolted, turning his head to the door where a loud knock and Heather's voice had alerted him.

"What are you doing in there? Hurry up, I've already got your schoolwork sitting out for you!"

"...I'm sorry, Heather. I'll be out in a couple of minutes."

She said something else while she walked away, but he didn't hear her. He instead went back to pulling his shirt on the rest of the way, all the while gritting his teeth from the flares going up his back as he did so. He adjusted his shirt, buttoning up the small row of buttons at the top, and reached over to a small black bag sitting on the counter. He unzipped it and dug through, moving aside various nail clippers, a hair brush, and tubes of chapstick, before pulling out a small container of concealer.

It wasn't something he always used. But after several instances of "convenient" bruising in several other foster homes besides the Phelps', he'd learned pretty quickly that a lot of foster parents never had any good excuses for why the child they were looking after had suddenly appeared injured. Not that they ever wanted to tell the truth, half of these people were only in it for the money. They acted like it was his responsibility to either explain, or hide the bruise.

Well, he didn't want to lie. He never liked lying, not out loud anyways. So that was what had led him to using his allowance money to buy makeup, primarily concealer. His then-foster mom at the time had given him a weird look when he'd come back to join her in the next aisle, but he'd simply tossed the concealer into the cart and not said anything. Thankfully he hadn't had much use for it in that home, and that was a good thing, considering that the next home he'd went to had been the Phelps.

Now he was almost out. And he wasn't sure what he was going to do should the time come to get more, Heather and Joe almost never let him out of the house unless they needed something. And after last night, he was sure they were never going to trust him to go out on his own ever again.

Dipping his fingers into the concealer, he looked back up at his reflection. He didn't want to touch his bruises, he didn't want to touch them, no-but he did, lifting up his fingers, and deftly pressing them to the bruise on his left eye. He cringed at the stinging it gave off, but pressed on, blending the concealer against the purple and blue until it had nearly disappeared.

He repeated this same motion on the other eye.

A tear.

A tear was leaking from it, and leaking from his other eye. He had no choice. He couldn't look away from his face if he wanted to get this right, but he didn't want to look anymore. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand looking at them, they hurt. Their memories hurt. He was tired of this.

 _Ugly ugly ugly ugly-you deserve this. You deserve this. It's no one's fault but your own._

He choked on a sob threatening to break loose from his throat, inhaling sharply. He pressed more concealer against his bruises, over the tears that were dripping down his cheek. His lower lip was trembling. Inhale. Exhale.

 _What did Amanda say, Connor, what would she say now if she saw you? God, can you imagine?_

He didn't want to. Oh god, he didn't want to.

Inhale. Exhale.

More tears.

More concealer.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight. A minute later, he opened them back up, blinking away all tears that lingered.

His lip still quivered, even as he pressed his lower lip atop it. He inhaled once more.

 _Do not cry. Do not cry, Connor. Crying is a weak emotion. You're not weak._

He wasn't. He was not weak.

He stared at himself now. No more bruises. No more crying. He wasn't weak. He was strong.

He only wished his eyes wouldn't betray him.

At the sound of Heather's voice calling him once more, Connor quickly put all his things back into his little black bag and folded up his pajamas, setting them neatly atop the stacks of the other children's night clothes. He inhaled one more time, to ensure he was completely calm, and exited the bathroom, turning off the light as he left.

It was a quieter morning than usual, he noted, as he walked out into the living room. That was a given considering all the other kids were at school right now, the only other child remaining at home besides Connor was the baby, who was rolling around on the floor with a stuffed cat and cooing loudly. The actual family cat was seated on the sofa, tail flicking and eyes squinting. Joe was nowhere to be seen, probably still in bed as always.

 _Oh yeah, like he could sleep well after what he'd just done the other night._

 _Shush. Don't think like that._

He walked over to the table, where Heather had already sat out a stack of his school books and some notebook paper. Quietly, he slipped into his seat, and pulled a biology textbook from the stack, opening it up to where he'd last left off two days ago. Yesterday had seen no school work getting done; the others had stayed home all day thanks to some faulty heating at their school, and there'd been nothing but screaming and yelling from morning until he left in the evening.

He wasn't sure if he liked the quiet better, it didn't help him focus any, really. His eyes were reading the words but only some of them were staying in his mind. Metaphase, anaphase, prophase, agh. So many phases. How was he going to remember all of this crap?

Normally he had a very good memory, but the events of his punishment had been replaying over and over again on a repeat since he'd gone to bed. Because of this, he hadn't slept all that well, another reason for his lack of concentration this morning. He knew he should consider himself lucky he didn't go to public school, considering how many times he'd dozed off while doing his work. He would've surely been reprimanded in that case.

Shoving the book back slightly, Connor grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, starting to jot down specific details and to make poorly drawn doodles of each step in the phases he was reading about. Focusing on this seemed to take some attention away from the memories on replay, though his grip on the pencil kept tightening due to pain flashes coming from his back.

Heather passed him by, only briefly eyeing him and his work before walking back off to the kitchen. He continued on, several minutes, before turning the page and going back to his reading, remaining quiet and still like he was supposed to. The only noise in the house was the _woosh woosh_ from the ceiling fan and the cooing baby, which were soon joined by a heavy pair of feet stomping in through the front door.

Oh, so Joe _hadn't_ been asleep. He'd just came inside from who knows where, and Connor wasn't about to ask. His body still ached, and he wasn't prepared for a repeat of last night's beatings.

 _Even though you deserved it, you deserved it, Connor._

Joe carelessly threw off his dirty old jacket onto the rocking chair and plopped onto the couch, startling the cat into jumping off. He shouted for Heather to get him coffee, his voice causing Connor to flinch, but he continued to keep quiet and do his schoolwork. He had to get this all finished before Amanda showed up later today, he didn't know when she would be showing up; and while he would normally look forward to it, he couldn't say he was so quite so eager today knowing that Sheriff Anderson had asked his secretary to call her.

She knew. She already knew what had happened, he just knew it.

Heather passed by Connor again, carrying with her a chipped mug. She handed it over to her husband and went back to her previous task of tidying up. The house had been clean for the most part, until Joe and Connor's altercation. The book shelf had been tipped over and several books and magazines littered the floor, and there were tiny blood stains in the carpet, which she was now knelt down on and scrubbing at with a sponge covered in stain remover.

"God, will this crap just get out already?" Connor heard her muttering, as he turned another page in his book. "You know, you could've just beaten him in the kitchen, that would've been easier to mop up."

There was no audible response from Joe, but when Connor spared himself a brief glance to the man, he could see him extending a middle finger to his wife. She groaned at him and went back to scrubbing the stain, but was promptly stopped by a knock at the door. Her gasp alerted Connor into looking back up, and he felt his heart nearly jump up his throat at the sight of Amanda standing at the door, which was now open.

"Good morning, Mrs. Phelps." The silvery voice of his caseworker made him stay frozen in his seat, the pencil even remaining pressed to his paper.

"Ms. Stern!" Heather practically choked her words out, immediately and hastily shoving the sponge onto a nearby end table. "Oh my gosh, I uh, won't you come in?"

She stepped aside, allowing the other woman to step inside. There was a pleasant look on her face, albeit a very cold one, as was her typical expression. Connor had never understood how she was able to maintain such a calm, unaffected state 24/7, but he'd never dared question her out loud. Amanda Stern was not a woman you could just walk up to and ask a simple question, one look from her would be enough to strike you down where you stood.

"Mr. Phelps, good morning." Amanda nodded towards Joe, who returned her greeting from behind his cup of coffee, though he looked very confused. Heather shut the door behind her, pressing several loose pieces of her blonde hair back into her messy ponytail as she came back over, careful to quickly pick up the crawling baby from the floor.

"Uh, this-this is certainly a surprise, we weren't expecting you until noon." She laughed slightly, shifting the baby up against her shoulder. "I'm sorry, if I'd known you were coming over I'd have had something ready for you."

"Oh no, that's quite alright. I wasn't planning on staying long anyways." Amanda replied simply, before looking over at Connor, who had ducked his head back down to his books. "Hello, Connor."

He seized. Keeping one hand pressed against the page he was reading, he looked up, and over at her, forcing a tiny smile.

"Hello, Amanda."

She smiled. The same cold smile. Never had he ever found it friendly, not even as a small child. It had just seemed to grow colder and colder towards him with each passing year, even if there was a small hint of fondness in it.

She'd turned back to the adults, and was sitting down now. Connor went back to his reading, but kept an open ear as the group began talking. It wasn't right to listen in, he'd told himself so repeatedly, but it was hard not to do so when the people talking were literally right next to him.

"I do apologize for the surprise visit, but I can assure you this isn't one of my routine ones." she was saying. "I've actually arranged for someone else to come by and inspect later, as for the time being, I'd like to talk with you two about Connor."

"Connor? What about him?" He heard nervousness in Heather's voice, not shocking. He flipped the page to the next, pulling out another piece of paper to take more notes.

"Many things. Many things, in fact," Oh no. She'd paused. It was never anything good when she paused. "Connor?"

He set his pencil down.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Would you come over here please?"

"Yes ma'am."

He scooted his chair back and got up, stepping onto the stained carpet and over to the group waiting for him at the couch. Amanda looked up at him as he approached, reaching out her hand. He took it and was immediately greeted with a tight squeeze, her fingers wrapping around his as she once again smiled cooly and fondly at him, before looking back over to Joe and Heather.

"He looks well. Perhaps I was right to leave him with you two."

Her words earned a smile from Heather and a disinterested look from Joe, who only finished off his coffee.

"But then again, perhaps I wasn't." She held onto Connor's hand, and he stayed standing next to her. The looks on his foster parents' faces instantly changed. "Would you believe, I received the strangest phone call last night? A young lady, from the police department. She told me some things that I found just a little hard to believe."

 _He was right. She knew._

"Oh, but Ms. Stern, we can explain-" Heather started immediately, but was cut short by a raise of hand from Amanda.

"There's no need. In fact, let me just cut to the chase." Amanda released Connor's hand, folding both of her own into her lap. "For the time being, I have decided to terminate your custody of Connor. He will come back with me to the group home, and until further notice, stay there until I decide whether or not you two are responsible enough to handle him again."

"What?" Both Heather and Joe sat up in their seats, the baby squirming in Heather's arms. Connor continued to stand by, electing to not say anything until he knew he would be allowed to.

"You heard me correctly. As of today, Connor is no longer your responsibility."

"You-no, you can't be serious! Ms. Stern, please!" Heather protested, pulling the squirming baby back into her lap. "We've had him for six months now, he's happy here! We've been taking good care of him, you said so yourself!"

"I wouldn't exactly call letting him out on his own at night 'taking care of him', Mrs. Phelps." Amanda reprimanded the other woman, shooting her a look that immediately silenced her. "I call that neglect, and I did not send him here to be neglected. Now I'm not for sure what entirely happened, but I know that you and your husband are longer suitable candidates for his legal guardianship."

"But-"

"And as it goes, you already have the responsibility of at least six other foster children on your hands. When you said you could handle Connor, I chose to trust you. I can now see that that was clearly a mistake."

She didn't sound loud, but she was certainly angry, like the calm type of angry you'd hear lawyers on crime shows sound like as they spat out one harsh word to the next towards the court and jury. Connor had watched enough of those to wonder if his caseworker had missed her true calling in that department.

"Ms. Stern, please, if you'd just give us another chance, we can explain!" Heather continued to plead, but upon receiving no response, glanced helplessly to her husband. "Joe, come on, help me out here!"

But Joe didn't seem to care much, only shrugging as he sat his coffee mug down.

"It's a lost cause, Heather. Just let her take him, after all, she'd said it'd only be until further notice."

"Yes, but-"

"Enough, this discussion is over." Amanda stood up with a flick of her hand, causing Heather to go silent again. "The decision has been made, Connor is going back with me. I'll contact you in a few days once I've made up my mind."

She turned to Connor.

"Connor, go pack your things. I'll wait for you out here."

"Yes, Amanda." He nodded, quick to respond. He didn't bother looking at his now-former foster parents as he walked away from them, and over to the table where his books were. He scooped them up, and carried them in his arms down the hall whilst Amanda began to speak to Joe and Heather once more.

He went into the boys' room, and sat the books down on the bed. Reaching underneath the bed, he pulled out his dusty but trusty duffel bag and unzipped it, packing up all books, pencils, and clothing inside. He went back to the bathroom and retrieved his little black bag and pajamas, packing those as well. He wondered momentarily if he should pack the headphones and mp3 player, but decided not to. They weren't really his, after all.

Putting on his own thin coat, Connor zipped up his bag and heaved it onto his shoulder, gripping onto the strap with both hands. Just as she'd promised, Amanda was waiting for him when he came back out into the living room. Joe and Heather were standing now as well, both with solemn, upset faces. Though to be fair, it was probably because they'd just lost an extra monthly paycheck.

Amanda urged him to bid goodbye as they left, and he did, even if he felt a small wave of relief come over him as he did so. After last night, leaving here had never felt better, even if it did mean he'd just be going back to the group home and waiting another several months to be placed in another household that didn't really want him.

After putting his things in the backseat of Amanda's car, he rejoined his caseworker in the front, silently seating himself in the passenger's side. She sat next to him, starting up the car and placing her hands on the steering wheel. Though, she did not drive away immediately.

Instead, she looked over at Connor. He didn't look at her, he could already feel her eyes piercing into him.

"I'm sorry this didn't work out, Connor." _Her voice didn't sound sorry._ "But there's always other homes out there, you know that."

"I know, Amanda."

"You still have a chance, as long as you follow the rules."

"I know."

"And something tells me…" Something changed in her voice, causing Connor to swallow hard. He wished he had his coin right now, god, he couldn't stop his fingers from digging into his seat. "That you might've forgotten to do that again. Am I right?"

 _Don't say anything don't say anything don't say anything-_

"Yes, Amanda-" He could see it now. The room. _That_ room. The ever-turned off lightswitch, the blank white walls. The one lone chair in the center. "I'm sorry. I did try my best, honest."

A sigh. Amanda sighed, as she began to back the car up.

"Try isn't good enough, Connor. How many times have I told you that?"

They pulled away from the Phelps house, the tires making slight screeching noises due to the friction from the icy road. Connor kept his head low, nails poking at the leather on his seat. _Where was his coin, where was his coin, he wanted his coin. He hurt, he ached so much, covered bruises-_

"Connor?"

"...many times, Amanda."

* * *

Hank didn't know what time it was when he woke up, he only figured it must be late in the morning due to the obnoxious beams of sunlight pouring in through the window. Shielding his barely opened eyes, he grunted, pushing himself up on the couch-wait, the couch? He didn't remember falling asleep on the couch, but he didn't remember taking the time to pull himself to bed either.

Well, it must've been the former, because he was still dressed in his clothes from yesterday, and the television was still on, only the Star Trek reruns had been replaced by Bonanza reruns. Only one empty beer container sat on the coffee table, which told him he'd more than likely passed out due to exhaustion and not alcohol this time.

 _Huh. That would be a first._

Glancing around, he spotted the clock on the wall, which read 10:00 AM. Shit, he hadn't meant to sleep this long, it was too early in the week to already be late for work. But then, after yesterday's events, it wasn't like he was jumping with joy to be working today. He dreaded what might be awaiting him and almost altogether considered just staying home. He could just stay home, couldn't he? After all, they'd call him if they actually needed him.

That was something he could figure out after he'd woken up some more. Thankfully it seemed like he'd slept his headache away, as he could no longer feel the same annoying pain needling at the back of his head.

Even so, it took him a good few minutes to try and stand up; he wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, exactly, regardless of the amount he still felt exhausted; in fact, he was sure that several years of his life had been sucked away after what had happened yesterday. It sure as hell felt that way, and, oh-looked that way too.

He caught sight of himself in the television's black screen as he switched it off. Hair even more bedraggled than usual, having at some point while he was sleeping, fallen apart from where he'd pulled it back. Wrinkles and dark circles even more prominent on his face than before. Groaning, he covered his face with his hands, muttering into them.

Was it too soon for him to just go ahead and retire now? He should've known this job was going to prematurely age him, he'd figured that when he was already sprouting his first grey hairs at 35. Really, he was honestly shocked his hair hadn't started to fall out in clumps yet.

Hands dropping back to his sides, he looked over to see that Sumo was no longer on the couch. Probably already at his dog bowl, no doubt. Hopefully he hadn't torn into the food, the last thing Hank wanted was to slip on a pile of kibble bits when he was half-awake...again.

Right as he decided to get up and go check on the big dog, a sharp knock sounded at the front door. He had no strong desire to open it or even check to see who was there, though he was sure he already had a good idea of who. Regardless, he diverted his path from the kitchen back into the living room, and over to the door, where he found Sumo standing at alert and growling softly.

"Back down, Sumo, it's alright." He gave the dog a reassuring pat on the head and moved to unlocking the door, even though Sumo's growls continued. When he'd opened it, he was greeted with a blast of cold air and the sight of Amelia standing on his front porch, a foil-covered container in her hands. She wasn't smiling, which was a rarity given her usual cheery disposition. Instead, she looked at Hank with concern, presumably having greatly notice at his disheveled state.

"Hi, Hank." she greeted him, even if she sounded uncertain.

"Hi…"

His brows drew together, as the two just looked at each other for a good minute of silence. Not even Sumo was growling anymore. Amelia's eyes darted past Hank, and back to him, as her fingers tapped against the container she was holding.

"Can I come in?"

"Uh...sure. Sure, why not…"

Hank stepped back, allowing the young woman to walk in past him while he shut and re-locked the door. When he turned around, she'd already knelt to give Sumo a good head scratching and to coo over him, before she stood back up to face Hank. Her expression instantly changed the minute she looked him over, shaking her head.

"A bit early in the week for sleeping in your clothes, don't you think?" she asked, adjusting a sliding purse strap that was falling off her shoulder.

"Who said I slept in my clothes?" Hank huffed, folding his arms. "This is just how all my clothes look, I haven't worked an iron in ages, Amelia, and I don't have time to either."

"Sure, you do. Just like you have time to work on your lying skills." Amelia turned and headed into the kitchen, Hank following after her with an aggravated grunt. She sat the foil-covered container down, and glanced about the room, scrunching her nose at the dirty dishes in the sink, alongside the remnants of last week's pizza boxes sitting on the table.

"And while you're at it, cleaning up might not hurt either."

"What's the point, it's just gonna get messy again in here anyways." Hank shrugged, daring to step over and pick the container, peering underneath the foil. "Ehh...dare I ask what the hell is in this thing?"

"Vegetable frittata. I didn't think you'd have anything for breakfast and-oh, looks I was right!" She turned a grin his way, having found the half-empty box of donuts in the cabinet. "Christ, Hank, when's the last time you went shopping for proper groceries…"

She dropped the box into a trash bag Hank hadn't realized she was holding, causing him to yelp in protest as he dropped the container back onto the counter.

"Heyyy-hey, wait, those are still good until next month! Don't throw those out-" She brushed past him, heading to the table to collect the trash from it. "Amelia, for fuck's sake will you just-hey, stop, it will you?"

He snatched the bag from her, right as she was about to throw an empty beer can inside.

"I've told you a hundred times already, I don't need you showing up to check on me anytime I'm late for work." Throwing the bag aside, he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Look, I swear I wasn't drinking, okay? I had like one beer and fell asleep on the couch, that's all. I was fucking exhausted, cut me some slack."

"I've been cutting you slack for quite some time now, Hank. Don't you think I'm allowed some slack of my own for worrying?" Amelia picked the bag back up, resuming her sweep of the table. "I mean, you seemed so tense last night, and then-then you didn't come back after taking Connor home-"

"Amelia-"

"And what about before that? You up and left in the middle of the evening, what made you think I wouldn't notice?" Sumo trotted past the two, plopping down in front of the fridge. "I went to your office and it was empty, Hank. It was empty last night, it was empty this morning, I got concerned. So forgive me if I just-"

The bag hit the floor with a loud clank, as Amelia stopped talking. She pressed a hand to her mouth, a muffled choke sounding from underneath it. When she turned her head to look back to Hank, he could see tears forming in her eyes.

"I'm sorry…" She reached her hand underneath her glasses, brushing aside a tear as she sniffed, laughing shortly but softly. "I'm sorry, Hank. I guess I just care too much."

"You think I don't know that?" Hank had been silent this whole time, not even daring to interrupt. He knew once Amelia got started on a rant there was no stopping her, and while he had had a few choice words, he didn't have in him to say them. He may be an asshole, but he still had a heart.

"Truth is, I think I just care too little…" He moved to the table, seating himself on the one chair that wasn't stacked with empty takeout boxes. "It isn't that I don't appreciate you checkin' in on me, hell, you check in on me more than Grace ever said she would. I just don't think I'm worth the fuss, you should be back at the department, and getting work done...not worrying about me. That isn't your job."

"It kinda is, though." Amelia reminded him, pushing a lock of brown hair behind her ear as she took the seat next to him, not before removing any stray boxes. "It's only fair. You looked out for me before, why I can't I do the same for you?"

"Because it's not-" Hank groaned, covering his face with one hand. "It's not the same, Amelia. God, I just…"

Sumo stirred from his spot by the fridge, walking over to his owner and dropping his big head into his lap, whimpering. Amelia bit her lower lip, before reaching over and resting her hand on Hank's, which he'd sat on the table.

"Talk to me, Hank. What's going on?"

He eyed her hand, slightly bewildered at the gesture and her offer to hear him out. Not that she hadn't tried this before, coming over to his house, cleaning things up and then trying to have a heart to heart with him. Those always ended with her leaving without a conversation, but this time...this time, something made Hank want to talk. Maybe it was because the overwhelming pressure and guilt he felt from yesterday was eating away at him, but he had to tell someone.

It was getting too heavy to carry by himself, anymore. And he wasn't about to go see a therapist yet, despite her constant recommendations for him to do so. If he was going to open his heart up about his troubles, it was going to be with someone he trusted.

He told her the expected things. The red ice, how he didn't want a repeat of last time. She'd listened, only nodding and not interrupting, allowing him to continue. Finally, he talked about Connor. He told her about their conversation, his mannerisms and the weird way he talked. He told her about his experience at the Phelps house, and the way Joe had handled the boy. How Connor had looked at him before he left.

"And you know what the worst part is? I never even fucking apologized to him." Hank let out a bitter laugh, scratching at Sumo's head. "Y'know, for the whole gun thing...yeah, no, I doubt that would've made me feel less guilty about leaving him there. I didn't like those people, Amelia, I've talked to too many people like them before. They probably started beating him the very minute I left."

"Jesus…" Amelia shook her head, looking sickened at the thought. "Well...why don't you just go see him again then?"

"What? Are you fucking nuts?" Hank held back another laugh, instead looking at the young woman with disbelief. "Why would I do that?"

"You said it yourself. You're concerned about him."

"I never said that-"

"Not out loud, no, but I could hear it in your voice." Amelia stated, crossing one leg over the other as she shifted on her chair. "C'mon, Hank, how hard would it be? Just drop by, say you wanna see him. Maybe take him out somewhere so you can have a proper chance to talk."

"Take him out-what? Oh, okay, and where the hell do you suggest I take him to?"

Amelia thought for a minute, shrugging.

"I dunno. Speedy's Diner, maybe. It's where you took me, after all."

"When did I-" Hank stopped, as the memory suddenly came back to him. Oh yeah, wait, no, he did remember when he did that. The fact that it had been over ten years since that event was probably what made him forget at first. It'd been a short time after he'd became a deputy here, and one of his very first calls involved that of a robbery from a local convenience store.

When he'd gotten there, he'd gone to take a look around back and had a found a then-fifteen year old Amelia hiding behind a dumpster, stolen goods spilling from out of her arms. Instead of arresting her, he'd taken her back inside and made her return all the things she'd taken, then he took her home. This ended up being a repeated cycle for awhile; Hank being called to a crime scene only to find Amelia at it, not arresting her, and taking her home.

The last time one of these incidents had happened, Hank didn't take her home. He'd instead taken her downtown to the diner, where he treated them both to a slice of what he still thought was the world's best apple pie. She didn't eat or speak much at first, so he'd done those things, talking to her with great patience. He didn't remember the exact details of their conversation, but whatever he'd said had been enough to make her stop thieving and to get her life back on track.

Gone were those days, though. Somewhere along the line of losing Cole, his ex, and his mental health, he'd lost the ability to be able to give life changing conversations. If that was what Amelia was suggesting he do with Connor, then she was sorely mistaken.

"Amelia, I…" He moved his hand from the table. "I'm not saying your idea sucks but...alright, it kind of sucks. I don't think I'd be able to say anything to help the kid out, even if I wanted to. I've lost my touch, and him? There's...god, there's something really off about him. I don't know what."

"And? You didn't know what was going on with me, either."

"True, but I figured that out pretty quickly, didn't I? I haven't figured out anything about Connor, all I've done is guess and speculate."

"Maybe that's all you need to do." Amelia stood up, going back to collect the trash bag. "I'm not saying it'd help but...Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."

" _Yeah, and Rome wasn't built like Connor's mind either."_ Was what he wanted to say, but he refrained, realizing how unfair that sounded. Much as he didn't want to admit it, Amelia did have a good point. He'd only met Connor once, he didn't know everything that was going on. Plus, if he never got the chance to apologize, would he ever be able to focus on anymore red ice incidents that were bound to pop up? God, why did his brain have to be so selective, anyways, he didn't _have_ to know anymore about Connor, or how he was doing. He could figure that out by himself, easily.

Just like how he could figure out that his mind would never be at ease until he _did_ see Connor again. Then maybe he could put this whole thing behind him, and get a chance to focus on what really mattered.

Yeah.

He could do that.

One visit to Connor. Apologize. Talk to him. How hard could it be to do that?

But, knowing his own luck, it was going to be very hard.

* * *

Hank pulled his car up to the Phelps house at approximately 11:30, but he didn't get out of it until 11:35.

Amelia had been ecstatic when he reluctantly and finally agreed to her idea of going to see Connor, though if he'd had his way he would've waited another whole day before he went, figuring he'd rather delay the inevitable. But what point was there to waiting, it wasn't like Connor's situation was miraculously going to switch gears in such a short amount of time.

So, after showering, dressing, and being forced to eat a serving of the frittata Amelia had brought by, the two had parted ways as she went back to the department and he went elsewhere. She'd promised she'd call and let him know if anything came up that required his aid, also promising to keep Gavin in line should he try anything stupid, which that happening was always a high possibility.

Cage Boulevard seemed more lively today as he drove past it, people out in their yards either setting Christmas decorations or scooping away powdery piles of snow out of their driveways. It hadn't snowed all that heavily, though several times during the drive Hank had nearly hoped the roads would be blocked. Anything to get him out of going back to that house, he was dreading having to exchange pleasantries with the likes of those Phelps people.

But then, when Amelia had pointed out his obvious concern for Connor, he knew there was no way he was about to back out of this. If he didn't go now, he might not end up going at all, and he didn't even want to know where that would leave him.

Bringing the car to a stop and taking the keys out, Hank glanced out the window and over to the unfriendly grey house. There was no sign of a car in the driveway, but that didn't entirely mean nobody was home. Wouldn't be his fault if no one was, maybe the parents had just stepped out for something and left Connor there.

His heart hurt at the very thought of the kid. Why he felt so much concern for him, he didn't know, but he just hoped doing this would relieve him of that burden. The sooner he took care of this, the sooner he could get back to focusing on the really important things...though to be fair, it wasn't like he was looking forward to those, either.

When he'd at last worked up enough nerve to get out of the car, he trudged through the snow up to the front steps, and onto the porch. He couldn't see anyone through the window, but knocked at the door anyways. Nothing. He knocked a second time, which elicited the sound of approaching footsteps. The door then swung open, Mrs. Phelps standing on the other side of it. She held a fussy baby against one hip, placing a hand on the other as she stared back at Hank with the very familiar expression of contempt.

"Oh, you. What happened this time?" she groused. "Find another one of our foster kids behind a bar again?"

"Good morning to you too, Mrs. Phelps." Hank chose to ignore the bitter way she'd just spoken to him, even though it took great effort to not want to reply in the same way. "No, I-I was wanting to speak with Connor, if I could. Is he here right now?"

"No. And he probably won't ever be here again thanks to you." It amazed Hank how Mrs. Phelps wasn't even trying to put on a polite front this time, but it also didn't shock him. What did shock him, on the other hand were her words.

"What did you just say?"

"Connor. He's gone, his caseworker came by earlier and took him away." She scowled, bouncing the baby in her arms. "Yeah, apparently one of your guys called her and told her what happened. Now she thinks we aren't suitable guardians for him anymore."

 _Not that you ever were in the first place._

This was certainly something. It wasn't what he'd expected to find out upon coming here, but despite this news it did little to ease Hank's mind. On the one hand, he had to give that Ms. Stern some credit for not sitting around on her ass, that was more than he could say for most fostering agencies. On the other hand, who was to say Connor was in any better hands now than he was before? Especially with all that "deserving of punishment" talk Connor had been rattling on about before, what kind of shit were they teaching him at that place?

Well, it looked like he'd been right in assuming this was going to be hard.

"So...he's back at his group home then?"

"Yes! Now is there anything else you want?" Mrs. Phelps snapped, shifting the baby onto her other hip. "Because I've gotta get this brat some lunch and I'd prefer it if you didn't keep me standing at my doorstep all day."

"Yeah, actually. If you could just tell me the name of his group home then I'll gladly be on my way."

Mrs. Phelps' raised an eyebrow, squinting at Hank.

"Why do you wanna know?"

"So I-so I can talk to him. That's why." He crossed his arms together as a sharp breeze blew past him, carrying some snow over his feet. "And you know what, Mrs. Phelps, I don't think it's any of your business to be asking me, seeing as Connor ain't your responsibility anymore."

"Hm. Yeah, I wonder why." She stepped back, preparing to close the door. Hank grabbed onto it before she was able to do so, barely managing to hold it open wide enough to prevent it from smashing into his fingers.

"Now you listen here, Mrs. Phelps, you don't get to hold me or my guys responsible for what happened last night." he snapped. "Fact is, you and your husband are the ones that let him out by himself. You wanna find the person responsible, I suggest you look in a goddamn mirror."

"And I suggest you leave-"

"Lady, I'm the fucking sheriff, you don't get to _suggest_ anything." Hank slid his foot into the door after losing his hold on it, before Mrs. Phelps could have a chance to try closing it. "All I'm asking is one thing, you tell me where Connor's at or I'm pretty sure I could think of a few more questions to ask you. And I doubt they'd be questions you could answer without lying, either."

There was a flash of fear in Mrs. Phelps' eyes as Hank said this. She released the door, allowing him to move his foot back.

"Alright, fine, I don't know why you wanna know so bad, but fine." she said. "He stays at the Corvitae Home, just a ways out of town. But you can't just show up there and see him, they won't let you in unless you have an appointment. And even then it'll probably be another couple of days before you can get over there."

"Fuck's sake…okay, you got a number I can call?"

"Yeah, hang on." She disappeared for a moment, coming back a second later with a piece of paper in hand. She practically shoved it Hank's way, and was shutting the door before he even had a chance to respond. Oh well, that was nothing he'd be grieving about later.

Turning from the door, Hank headed back down the steps and across the yard to where his car was parked. While doing so, he unfolded the piece of paper Mrs. Phelps had handed him and read over the poorly-written number on it. Right, okay. He had the number, that was step one. Step two was going to get lunch at Speedy's Diner, then when he got back home, he'd call.

That would be step three.

And step four...well, step four would be whenever he got to see Connor again.


	9. Chapter 9

At first, Hank had thought Mrs. Phelps might've been bluffing when she said it'd be another couple of days before the folks at the Corvitae Home would let him over to see Connor. It was only when he'd made the phone call that he realized that for once, she hadn't been bluffing, and was right.

He'd called just as soon as he'd gotten back from eating lunch, though he did have to spend a couple of minutes working up his nerve to actually dial the number. Then it'd taken him a couple of tries to get through to anyone on the other end, having had to spend about thirty minutes listening to some annoying tune that sounded like a cross between elevator music and the crap you'd hear in the waiting room at the dentist's office.

After another ten minutes, he had started to contemplate just hanging up when he was finally put through to someone-and a live person, no less. He'd half-expected it to be met with one of those fake automated messages but instead, was greeted with the cheery voice of a young woman who'd introduced herself as Chloe. He'd then explained who he was, briefly mentioned the situation with Connor, and asked if it would be possible to meet with him.

" _Oh, just one minute...let me just put you on hold while I check with Ms. Stern…"_

And back was the elevator music. Another five minutes.

" _I'm sorry about the wait, Mr. Anderson. Anyways, Ms. Stern said that you can come by on Thursday, if that's alright with you?"_

" _Isn't there a sooner date?"_

" _I'm sorry, but no. I'm afraid Thursday is your only option."_

" _I-fine. Okay, yeah. Put me down for Thursday, I'll be there."_

Following that, they'd exchanged a few more words in the terms of a conversation, with Chloe offering to send some pamphlets in the mail. Hank had thought to decline at first, but ended up accepting anyways. Maybe it was just his police instincts, but he wanted to get a good idea of what kind of place he was going to be walking into. And from what Connor had already and very briefly said, he wasn't expecting anything nice.

So, the rest of that day and the next were spent preparing for that visit. While checking his mailbox on Wednesday morning, he found the pamphlets crammed in next to a plethora of bills and coupons, and had spent his time during breakfast mulling over it. He almost forgot that it was supposed to be a group home for unattended foster children as he read further, everything was so neatly worded and fancy that you'd almost think they were trying to advertise a boarding school.

" _ **Raising a generation for a better future,**_ huh?" Hank had turned the pamphlet over in his hand, snorting. "Yeah, sure. What do you think about that Sumo?"

He held the paper down for the big dog, who'd only briefly sniffed at it before going over to eat his food.

After finishing his perusement of the pamphlets, and forcing himself to finish the last of the leftover veggie frittata Amelia had brought by the other day, he'd then gone to work. Thankfully no more "red ice incidents" had been called in as of yet, except for maybe a couple of dealers Gavin and Tina had managed to arrest on one of their patrols.

Things ended up being surprisingly calm for the entire day, save for Hank's nerves. He couldn't quite focus on any case reports, or drinking his coffee, for that matter. He'd nearly dropped his cup several times before he'd finally given up and sat it down, leaning back in his chair and sighing heavily.

To say he was nervous about that visit...well, that was an understatement. He wished that he'd been able to go today, how he wished that so much. It would give him less time to convince himself that this was a bad idea. Hell, he didn't even know if Connor would want to see him, let alone talk to him again.

What was he supposed to say?

Besides apologizing for the gun thing...what else could he have to say?

He knew Amelia was counting on him working his magic convincing powers, but he didn't think he had it in him. That lunch at Speedy's was going to consist of nothing but static air, he just knew it.

He wondered several times if he should bring a gift with him. That might help break the ice a bit, right? But what did teenage boys even like? Hank wouldn't know, he hadn't been a teen for about forty years now, and he'd never gotten to experience that bit of life with Cole. He'd taken to asking Ben (while the two were coming back from a call about a break-in), whom he knew for a fact had a teen son of his own.

"It isn't that hard, Hank. Sure you don't know the kid too well, but I'd suggest just taking what interests you do know to heart." Ben had shrugged as he opened the car door. "It's what I do with Liam."

Interests.

Right, what interests?

Hank had no idea what Connor liked. It wasn't as if they'd had a total heart to heart in his office, all he could figure was that the boy had a few screws loose. He thought for a moment that he should call Chloe again and ask her if she possibly knew anything Connor liked, but decided he didn't want to be stuck another thirty minutes with elevator music.

Instead, he took a gamble, and on his way home that evening, stopped at the one department store that was still open and spent a while looking around; mainly to buy groceries, yes, but as he neared the checkout line, spotted a neatly-stacked tower of 500-piece puzzles. He'd looked them over for a good two minutes before picking up a puzzle with an ocean scene on the box, throwing it into the cart.

At one time, he had enjoyed a good puzzle. And a lot of people liked puzzles, what would it hurt? Besides, he didn't know why but Connor just...kind of struck him as someone who might like a challenge. Brain challenges were always fun, and Hank would partake in more of them if his mental capacity hadn't somewhat weakened over the years. Maybe Connor could find some enjoyment in it, at least.

The rest of the evening consisted of putting away his groceries and debating on whether or not he would bother to gift wrap the puzzle box. He decided not to bother and left it in its bag on the table, where it stayed until he took it back with him to his bedroom. It was sat down on his dresser, next to the clothing he'd picked out for the next day, and he'd gone to bed.

It ended up being a restless night, however. So many thoughts, so many concerns, and so many worries clouded his mind that it ended up taking him until 2:00 AM to fall asleep, and even then he'd been woken up twice by the same nightmare. And because he'd broken his alarm clock earlier that week, he almost ended up sleeping in past the time he'd mentally set for himself to get up.

He wasn't supposed to be at the Corvitae Home until that afternoon, sure, but it was an hour's drive, and he didn't know how the traffic would be today-not to mention the time it usually took him to get ready. He could be quick if he needed to, but given that this was kind of an important visit, took the time to actually shower properly, trim his beard, and comb and pull his hair back.

For the first time that week, he did not put on his uniform and instead, pulled on a white undershirt, a streaky blue and black button-up he was sure still smelled like moth balls, and a pair of dark pants. He threw on his coat, buttoning that up as well, and slid his feet into a pair of shoes that were resting in front of his bed. Grabbing the bag with the puzzle box from his dresser, he caught a glance of himself in the mirror and for once...didn't feel too disgusted by his overall appearance. In fact, aside from the dark bags under his eyes, he looked more lively than he usually did.

That was rare. That was quite rare. But he had to admit, it felt pretty good.

He made sure to fill up Sumo's food and water bowls before leaving the house, and also gave the dog a quick belly rub. Amelia had promised to come over and take him for his walk later, but despite that, Hank still didn't feel good about leaving the big dog all alone by himself at home. It'd been one thing when he was a puppy, there'd been two other people in this house back then. But ever since it had downgraded to only Hank, the poor canine had developed some severe separation anxiety, which would probably explain why he grew so restless and ended up chewing up everything.

Hopefully that wouldn't be the case today. Hank didn't plan spend on spending his _entire_ day with Connor, after all. Just a quick trip to his group home, a visit to Speedy's for a bite to eat, and one little conversation. That was all he had to do, he could manage it. He was sure he could. He'd had to do harder things in the past, this shouldn't be any different.

Upon managing to pry Sumo away from him (as Sumo was never one to release someone from giving him hugs), Hank fixed himself a quick breakfast-which was pretty much just a travel mug full of orange juice and a granola bar-, he headed out to the car where he ended up having to wait a solid three minutes for the frost from his windshield to clear out. Once he could see further than his own driveway, he switched on the radio to his favorite heavy metal station and pulled out onto the road.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been on the highway. Ever since the...accident...he'd spent most of his time on backroads and in the town, especially given that he had no real reason to ever leave despite the temptation to do so. He supposed it was the bad memories of this highway that had kept him off of it for so long, and thus he had tried in vain to see if there was any way he could get to Corvitae through the backroads.

Unfortunately, he'd had no such luck.

Going from the familiarity of Lovington's unevenly paved roads to the smooth, unnerving openness of the highway was not a pleasant feeling. It didn't bring him any good memories, only the ones from... _that_ evening. An evening that was supposed to be normal. An evening where he and Cole were just supposed to be returning home from a simple trip of ice fishing. Nothing bad was supposed to happen.

But it had been so dark.

Dark...and cold...

Dark, cold, icy roads...bright headlights…headlights.. _.crashing…_

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, noticing he'd veered over to the white line. Damnit, no. He could do this. Those memories were not at all important right now. He had to focus on getting to Corvitae in one piece, and that didn't include wigging out on the highway. Last thing he needed was to cause another accident.

Luckily for Hank, though, he was only on the highway for another thirty-five minutes. He almost floored it to his exit upon noticing it, eager to get away from the wide road and back onto something he was more familiar with...which only ended up being the roads. There was nothing familiar about these buildings, even if his GPS said he was going in the right direction. He hadn't been to this part of the county for so long, nothing looked familiar to him at all.

It was a good reminder of how isolated Lovington felt, though. All these buildings looked so..formal and modern compared to the tiny town. There were less local businesses and more of the well known ones, and some of the houses he drove past had the most ridiculous Christmas decorations set up in front. Mrs. Phelps had said the Corvitae Home just a ways out of Lovington, she'd never mentioned it'd be in this wealthy of a town.

Somehow, it didn't shock him.

Seeing as he was only a few minutes from arriving at the home, Hank stopped long enough at the one local business he'd spotted, which was your run-of-the-mill mom and pop store/gas station combo, where he not only refueled his car's depleting gas tank, but also got himself a cup of coffee. The only thing he was running on was orange juice and granola and that was not enough to keep him going for the entire day.

He thought that maybe he should've gotten a smaller cup, wondering if he'd enough time to finish it before he had got to the home. That didn't out to be such a huge problem, as he soon found himself caught behind an entire town parade that he wasn't even sure was all about. In the time it took him to free his car from the stream of floats and marching bands, he was able to finish his coffee and at last pulled up to Corivtae at exactly 12:00.

It...was an interesting building. That was saying something.

Unlike the elegant and lavish Victorian houses in the town, this one only looked like it had been one of those at one time, having since been remodeled into something bigger and more modern. It sat atop a low hilltop, which was caked in snow and variously modeled bushes. Not spotting any trash can in sight, Hank decided to leave the cup in the car with the other amount of trash piling up in the back, and stepped out.

He took a moment to look up the steps before heading up them, surveying the entire area around him. He hadn't been able to get a good look before, but he couldn't help but notice how empty it felt compared to everything else in town, which was so crammed together you'd forget to breathe. But this place...well, it looked like someone had just randomly dropped it on a hilltop without any thought.

Almost. Almost he wanted to turn and go back into the car, but instead began to walk the steep climb of stairs up to the top. He'd said he was going to do this, and he was. He had to prove to himself there was some of that old Anderson determination left, the same determination Amelia believed was there, and that some of his co-workers believed was there.

He didn't know how this situation was going to turn out. But there was only one way he was ever going to know, and that was going through with it.

He was practically winded by the time he'd reached the top of the stairs, and had had to grab onto the railing so he could have a moment to catch his breath and not worry about toppling back down. What a nice reminder to himself of how out of shape he was, not like the bathroom scale hadn't told him that already.

He didn't move until he was sure the color had returned to his face, then stepping off the stairs and onto a soft, crunchy pile of snow. Now that he was all the way at the top, he had to admit this place had a pretty nice view from up here. There was a long wire fence surrounding the building, and through it, he spotted several trees, what looked to be half of a greenhouse, and past that, a large body of water that held the faint outlines of several sailboats.

Well, despite the isolation, at least this was a decent area.

Stepping up yet another pair of stairs, this time being mercifully shorter than the ones he'd just travelled up, he reached for the door handles only to find that there weren't any. Instead, there was a small panel with a little black button attached to it. Hank stared at it, then pressed it, nearly jumping out of his skin when the doors slid open.

 _Christ, just how modern was this place._

The doors immediately slid shut behind him after he'd walked in, nearly startling him again. He shook his head, sighing with a brief hand to his forehead, and continued further into the building. His shoes squeaked against the immaculately shiny floor, as he stepped off the fuzzy welcome mat and headed across the room, looking at all the oddly shaped plastic plants and ugly art pieces that seemed to decorate the place.

This must've been the main lobby. Besides the plants and art pieces, there were a few uncomfortable looking couches and chairs set up around a water fountain, that changed from color to color. There were no signs of any toy boxes, or coloring books on the coffee tables, which instead housed perfectly stacked magazines and newspapers. In fact, there were no signs of any children being here at all, and if Hank hadn't already read the pamphlets, he would've thought he'd just entered the home of some fancy business tycoon.

"Sir?" A polite voice turned him away from staring at the depressing contents of the lobby, and over to an oval-shaped desk where a young woman was seated. She was wearing a modest blue dress, and her blonde hair was tied into a neat ponytail, that hung against her shoulder. The smile she was offering Hank was so white and wide, that he thought she looked like one of those models from a toothpaste commercial.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Can I be of any assistance?" she was asking, her voice sounding eerily familiar. Hank soon figured out why as he stepped over to the desk, noticing the name plaque set atop it that read "Chloe Hoste" in bold, bronze letters. This must be the same girl he'd been talking to on the phone the other day.

"Uh, hi, yeah. Chloe is it?" He sat the bag he was holding atop the desk, eager to give his fingers some momentary relief as they'd almost grown to the plastic handles. "I think we spoke on the phone, right? I'm Hank Anderson, I'm the guy who was asking about maybe seeing Connor Martin?"

"Oh, of course. I remember." Her smile grew and she turned to her computer, quickly typing something in it. Her eyes scanned the screen momentarily. "You're a little early, my schedule says you were supposed to be here at 12:45."

"Yeah, well, I figured I'd make an effort to not be late for once in my life." Hank shrugged, folding his arms. "I almost didn't make it because of that damn parade in town, nearly got caught up in all the traffic. Do you guys always have your Christmas parades this early?"

"I'm...sure I wouldn't know. I don't get into town much." He thought it was because he'd blinked, but he could've sworn Chloe's smile towards him had just waned a bit. Oh good, he was beginning to think her mouth had been stuck that way.

"Ah, I uh, I see…"

Chloe nodded, turning back to her computer. She typed something else in, then picked up a clipboard from her desk, pushing her seat back.

"Alright, Mr. Anderson. If you'll just have a seat right over there, I'll let Ms. Stern know you've arrived." She pointed over to the lounge, handing the clipboard to Hank with her other hand. "Could you fill in this form while you wait, please?"

"Form? What for?" Hank eyed the clipboard, raising an eyebrow. "Look, I really just came to see Connor. Can't all this formality wait?"

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid it can't. You see, it's a set policy that any visitors must fill out a form and meet with Ms. Stern prior to seeing any of the children."

 _Fucking…_

Resisting the familiar urge to mutter and swear under his breath, Hank took the clipboard from Chloe and headed over to the lounge, while she got up from her seat and headed down a narrow nearby hallway. He plopped down on the softest looking sofa there was, unhooking the pen from the top of the board. He scanned the form, his head nearly beginning to ache from all the detailed questions it entailed.

Of all the times to not have Amelia around, this was the kind of shit she liked doing. Anytime there was a form to fill in the department, she'd gladly fill it for him and only hand it back over for signatures. Only this time, it looked like he'd be the one getting the hand cramp; shit, with this many questions involved, you'd think he was applying to adopt Connor.

 _Hah, not in a million years._

He only wanted to see the kid and be done with him, that was it. That was all he wanted to do.

He was surprised it didn't take him that long to finish with the forms, though a majority of it mainly consisted of checking boxes and putting his signature on several dotted lines. As he finished securing his last John Hancock on the second page, he looked up just in time to see Chloe returning from the narrow hallway. Only this time, she wasn't alone. Another woman was walking next to her, a much older and more elegantly dressed woman. She carried herself with grace and poise as she walked, hands never moving from where they were folded in front of her.

So this must be the infamous Ms. Stern.

"Mr. Anderson, if you're done with those, I'll gladly take them." Chloe offered, as she approached first. Ms. Stern stayed behind, waiting beside the fountain, as if she expected Hank to just come over to her to speak.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, here you go." Hank stood up, eyeing Ms. Stern as he handed the clipboard back to Chloe. She took it and walked back over to her desk, while Hank approached the awaiting Ms. Stern. There was also a smile on her face, he noticed, but it seemed twice as colder and artificial than the one Chloe had.

"Mr. Anderson," She greeted, extending her hand palms-down to him, as if she were expecting something other than a handshake. "Amanda Stern, head director and primary caseworker of Corvitae. A pleasure to meet you."

He was sure her eyes must've twitched when he grabbed her hand, shaking instead of kissing it, as she had to presumably wanted him to do.

"Pleasure's uh, pleasure's all mine…" Releasing her hand, Hank grunted and placed both hands in his coat pockets. "I gotta say, quite the place you have here, Ms. Stern. Very...modern."

Amanda didn't even beam at his compliment, like he'd expected her to, but her voice sounded delighted at least. Hm. Fake delight, probably, he could sense it.

"Why thank you, Mr. Anderson." She stepped aside, her smile tight but ever present. "But I'm sure you've seen enough from the pamphlets already, so I'll spare you the entire tour. Shall we go ahead to my office, instead?"

"Your office-look, do we have to, I mean I really just want-"

"Yes, if you don't mind." Her smile now a sharp gaze, Hank could see why Connor was hesitant to go against anything this woman might have to say. At that, he realized there was no chance of convincing her otherwise. He should've known from enough conversations with his ex-when you were talking to a sharp-tongued woman, there was a good chance you weren't going to be the victor of that conversation. And Ms. Stern seemed to be twice that-sharp-tongued, and sharp-eyed.

He'd been right when he'd thought he wasn't going to like her.

"Alright…" Hank huffed, taking his hands out of his pockets. "Alright, show me the way, then. Let's go."

Her sharpness melted, just a tad, and she turned, walking towards the nearby hallway. Hank followed after, first going back to retrieve the bag he'd nearly forgotten, and caught up to Ms. Stern, who was waiting for him next to the ugliest plant he'd ever seen.

"This way." She turned again, walking down the hall. He stayed behind her, looking at various paintings and photographs on the wall. As they turned down another hall, they passed a wall of arranged photographs, which Hank stopped to look at. Unlike the other photos, which had been boring still life pictures, each one of these hosted a similar-looking group of well-dressed, but unsmiling children. One of these unsmiling children was a constant in every photo, a boy with dark hair and tired eyes.

There was no mistaking that boy to be Connor.

The earliest photo looked to be dated around 1995, though there was no group of children in it. Instead, what appeared to be a much younger Amanda Stern and another young boy were there instead. Hank stared in confusion at it, not even noticing that Ms. Stern had walked up next to him.

"We started this wall several days before the first group of children was adopted out." He jumped, but said nothing, only continuing to look at the photos. "I never planned on it, but I thought it would be a good way to remember those who were here before, and those who have left. As you can see, that's changed quite a bit over the years."

"Yeah, I can see that... " Hank remarked, moving the bag to his other hand. "What's the uh, what's the deal with the first picture though? The one with you and the boy?"

"Ah." Ms. Stern's tone grew surprisingly warm at this and she stepped a bit closer, looking at the photograph that Hank was pointing at. "That would be Elijah. I know it might throw the rest of the photos off a bit, but, I thought it would only be appropriate to have it there. After all, he was the first child I managed to help."

She squinted up at the photo, as if memories from a long time ago were slowly coming back into her mind, then looked back to Hank.

"You see, I was good friends with his parents. We all taught at the same college." she explained. "Unfortunately, they both perished in a boating accident when Elijah was very young, which left me to raise him. He was able to grow into a fine young man under my guidance, and ended up becoming a very wealthy entrepreneur. It was through his financing that we were able to open this place up, and why I chose to place his picture with the others."

"Ah, I uh, I see... so he founded this place, then?" Hank stared back up the picture. "And what about you, how'd you end up working here if you were already employed?"

"He founded it in a sense, yes. He preferred to put his money towards a good cause, and that cause ended up being to help children who were in the same situation he was once in." Ms. Stern began to walk away from the photos, causing to Hank follow suit after he shortly realized she wasn't next to him anymore. "And as for me…"

She stopped at a door, turning to look at Hank.

"Well, let's just say I found a new calling."

She pushed the door open, allowing Hank to step inside first. He did so, being instantly greeted with pure walls of white the minute he did so. This was a stark contrast to his own office back in Lovington, which had had years of love, care, tear and wear all over it. This place looked like one of those impeccably clean rooms where you had to wear a hazmat suit, so as not to contaminate anything. Which, Hank was almost afraid of doing, and only looked with great resistance at the plastic chairs sitting in front of Ms. Stern's desk, not daring to sit down.

He did sit down, however, after Ms. Stern had entered the room, not wanting to look like an idiot. It still felt like he was contaminating _something,_ just by sitting down in this thing. He would daresay it was even more uncomfortable than the sofa he'd sat down back on at the Phelps house.

"But enough about me and the past, let's get to why you're really here." He propped his arms on the armrests, while Ms. Stern walked past him and over to her desk, where she herself took a seat, folding both hands together. "You're here to talk about Connor, correct?"

"Um, yeah. I was actually hoping to talk to him." Hank shifted in his seat, wincing at the creaking it gave off as he did so. Oh, this was much worse than the couch at the Phelps house-and worse than his chair at the department. This thing felt like it was going to break underneath him at any minute. "I mean-if that's alright with you, I just wanted to see how he was doing, that's all."

"I see…" Ms. Stern nodded slowly, eyes shifting towards the bag Hank had sat down next to him. "And the bag? What's in that?"

"Oh, this? It's a gift." Hank reached down and pulled the puzzle of the bag, showing it to her to confirm that it wasn't anything dangerous. "I didn't know what he liked so...unless there's anything-"

"Mr. Anderson," Ms. Stern interrupted, moving her hands back from the desk. "Let me ask you something. You were one of the officers who took Connor in, am I correct?"

"Well, yeah-"

"And from what I understand of the situation, you just...let him go? Without any correction? Any punishment?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did." Hank sat forward his seat, suddenly not liking the way this conversation was headed. "What about it? He didn't manage to sell anything, and I'm allowed let people off with warnings the last time I checked. What's your point here?"

"My point is that you failed to implement any form of correction, that's what." Only a sliver of Ms. Stern's pleasantry remained, her tone taking on a very dark and serious undertone to it as she continued speaking. "We take correction very seriously here at the home, if one of the children falls out of line from that regime while they're away, it could have serious consequences for them. It's important we maintain their sense of right and wrong, their sense of obedience. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Not really. From what you're saying, it's like these kids aren't allowed to have their own peace of mind." Hank's brows knit together, as he scowled. "I get wanting to keep 'em in line, but what you're insisting on is ridiculous."

"It would seem that way, Mr. Anderson, but please," Ms. Stern said, moving her hands off the desk and into her lap. "Don't misunderstand me, I'd never willingly take away a child's free will and peace of mind. I only want for them to understand their place in life. That's all."

Fuck, Hank would hate to be against this woman on a debate team. She was tough, tough with screwed morals, and he was not about to give her the satisfaction of a reply. He instead shifting back in his seat and grunting. Besides, he didn't think she would appreciate his next choice of words, considering they were all vulgar swears.

"It's important a child finds their place in life, especially as they get older." Even if he'd thought to dare speaking one of these swears out loud, Ms. Stern didn't allow him the chance. She got up from her seat, going over to look out the window as if she were a movie villain about to start a long, boring monologue.

"That's why I carry so much concern for Connor. He's sixteen now, Mr. Anderson, it'll only be two more years before he starts his life on his own." Her hands were folded behind her back, Hank looking up at the mention of Connor. "You don't know how upset I was by the incident at the Phelps home, I had so much hope that this one was going to work out for him. He's been with us for so long, after all."

"How long, exactly?"

"For nearly thirteen years now. He was three years old when he was brought here." Amanda stepped away from the window, going over to a file cabinet. "I thought it was going to be easy to place him in a home right away, he was such a bright and charming young child after all. Any family would've been lucky to have him."

Bright and charming wouldn't be the exact words Hank would use to describe Connor, at least, not the version of Connor that he'd spoken to. Awkward and stiff might be more appropriate.

"So...what's the problem then? How come you haven't been able to place him?"

"That, I can't understand." Amanda was coming over to him now, carrying a file with her. She extended it to him to take, which he did. "He tries so hard to follow the rules, be polite. And he does so well sometimes too...but almost every time, in every home I've placed him, something has always happened. Something that brings him back here...I just don't understand it."

Hank nodded as he listened, though his main focus was on the file he was reading. A couple of pictures of Connor were clipped to it, one being a more recent photo, the other of him as a small child. Even in that one, Hank still found it hard to believe Connor had ever been bright and charming, he looked just as lifeless in that one as he did in the new one.

Looking away from the photos, he went over the other details. Connor Martin, born August 15th, 2002. No information on his birth parents, except for that his mother had been the one to drop him off at the home. Height...Jesus, he was nearly 6'0? Could've fooled Hank with how skinny he was. Eyes, brown. Hair, brown.

Turning the page, Hank was only able to briefly look at some of the notes that Ms. Stern had written before she abruptly snatched the file away from him, taking it back to the cabinet.

 _Yeah, not suspicious at all._

"So Mr. Anderson, why did you want to see Connor?" Ms. Stern asked, as she placed the file back into the drawer before shutting it. "I know you said you wanted to check on him...but something tells me that's not all that's going on."

Oh great, another person trying to psychoanalyze him. Hank almost rolled his eyes, but had to stop himself as Ms. Stern was walking back over to him. There was suspicion in her eyes, not unlike the suspicion Hank himself felt towards her for suddenly taking the file away. She was expecting an answer, and she didn't look like she was going to wait for it.

"I just…" Hank clapped both hands onto his legs, fingernails scratching at his jeans. "I don't know, really. I really don't. I guess I just felt guilty about the whole incident with the uh...with the drugs. If I can, I'd like to make it up to him. Talk for a bit, maybe take him out somewhere, y'know, give him a nice day...and that's all there is to it."

He hoped that'd be a sufficient enough answer, because he couldn't come up with a better one. Ms. Stern had been studying him closely while he'd spoken, making him feel like he'd been giving a testimony on a witness stand. He'd had to a few times in the past, but even those times weren't quite as unnerving as being in the same room as Amanda Stern.

"Well, if you say that's all, then I suppose it wouldn't be a problem." That cold, calculated smile was back, Christ. He didn't like this woman, he really didn't like her, and he'd only known her for ten minutes. "Come with me, I'll take you to him."

Before Hank could stand up, she was already at the door. He grabbed the bag and followed quickly, the two heading out of the hall and into another one, soon ending up at a wide pair of glass doors. Ms. Stern pulled them open, revealing a large conservatory inside.

It was a strangely pleasant room, compared to what else he'd seen of the home so far, fully decked out with plants and a small pool that stretched across the floor. A bridge lay across this pool, which Hank and Ms. Stern walked across. While crossing, Hank could see lots of small fish swimming around in the pool, some coming up to the surface to nip at remnants of what he could only guess was fish food.

Upon stepping off the bridge, they neared a bench that had been placed next to a...sandbox? Hank wasn't sure what, but there was a shit ton of sand inside that thing, alongside a giant rake that someone had been dragging around and making patterns with. Though the further he looked, his gaze was soon ripped from the sand displays to that of the sight of Connor, seated on the bench, and a large book sitting in his lap.

It almost felt surreal to see him again, Hank almost had to do a double take. This Connor was much different from the one he'd been talking to back in Lovington two days ago-gone was his oversized coat and fleeting expressions, which had now been replaced by smart clothes and a calm, expressionless face, which was concentrated on the pages of whatever it was he was reading.

 _Was this the same kid?_

"Connor." He looked up at them, as Ms. Stern called out his name. To Hank's shock, there was no sign of bruises anywhere on his way, which he'd nearly expected to see after leaving him at the Phelps home. What he did see, however, was the flash in Connor's eyes when he noticed Hank. "I'm sorry to interrupt your reading, but I have someone here to see you. I'm sure you remember Sheriff Anderson, don't you?"

"Oh, of course." Connor closed his book, setting it beside him. "It's nice to see you again, Sheriff."

What the hell was going on?

Hank felt like he was tripping out, combined with the eerie calmness of this indoor zen garden and the very drastic change of Connor, he was convinced he was dreaming this whole thing. Yeah, he'd expected the politeness and all, but he sounded so monotone at the same time. And what about his lack of bruises, there was no way Joe Phelps hadn't done anything to him. He'd been wanting to from the minute Hank had shown up at the house with the poor kid.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's nice to see you again, too, Connor." Awkwardly stepping closer, Hank cleared his throat. _Why did he always have to get himself into these situations?_ "I um...how've you been? I mean, after leaving ya back at your house, with the Phelps, I was kind of...erm, concerned about you."

"I appreciate the concern, Sheriff, but I can assure you I'm doing just fine." Jesus, with each passing minute this was starting to feel like Hank was in a remake of The Stepford Wives. Connor was speaking so plainly and so formally, it was almost creepy. "They were...understandably upset with me after you left, but they didn't do anything that I didn't deserve."

 _What the fuck-_

It was taking every bit of Hank's willpower to deal with this. That one cup of coffee he'd had was drained from him fast and was not doing a single thing for him.

"That's right, Connor. I'm glad you've learned your lesson." Ms. Stern was saying, from behind him, but he didn't bother to look back at her. He knew he'd be tempted to slap off whatever stupid callous look was on her face, and was better off just keeping his back turned. "Do you know what happens when you learn your lesson?"

"I'm...rewarded, correct?" Connor looked past Hank to his caseworker, eyes lighting up momentarily. Ms. Stern nodded, and gestured towards the bag Hank was holding.

"Well then, I'm sure you'll enjoy what Sheriff Anderson has brought you."

What? Oh, shit. Right, he'd brought him something. Understandable that he'd forgotten, given that his brain was trying to process _whatever_ the hell this was.

"Right, I'm sure you will. Yeah." Hank dared to walk closer to the bench, clumsily taking the box out of the bag. He held it Connor's way, forcing a smile to his lips.

"I didn't know what ya liked doing so...I grabbed you a puzzle. I hope you uh...I hope you like it."

"Thank you, Sheriff." Connor took the box from Hank, looking it over intently. "I love puzzles."

"You do? Oh, great, great." That was one thing he'd done right, thank God. "It's a 500 piece one though, I mean, I don't know if that'd be too hard for you-"

"Oh no, that's fine. 500 piece puzzles aren't so bad. I could even do a 10,000 piece puzzle if you needed me to." Connor seemed to brighten up upon saying this, looking up at Hank with the first discernible emotion on his face. Something akin to a childish joy, like he was proud of the fact that he could accomplish a 10,000 piece puzzle. It was...kind of endearing to see him like that.

"Connor." Oh, nevermind. His face melted back into the quiet state it'd been in before, at Ms. Stern's scolding voice. "What have I said about bragging?"

"That it's vain and selfish." Connor lowered his head, setting the puzzle box over on his books. "I'm sorry, I apologize."

Hank felt a pang in his heart at seeing how Connor had practically sank into his seat. Why was Ms. Stern still here, she'd done nothing so far but make this experience more unpleasant than it'd needed to be, not to mention pretty much crushing down any hope Hank had of getting to know who Connor really was. He kept getting the sense that there was more to this boy than what he thought, but he was never going to figure that out if they kept it going like this.

"No, hey. That's okay." Connor looked up, as Hank quickly came over to him and knelt down in front of him. "You don't have to apologize, accomplishing a 10,000 piece puzzle is definitely something to be proud of. Heck, I can't even manage a 50 piece one, you've got some skill, kid."

Connor didn't smile at this compliment, but he did seem to brighten back up. Okay, that was a start. A small start, but Hank could try to work with that.

"Listen, uh," He grabbed ahold on the bench to stop himself from toppling over, as his knees felt like they were about to give out on him. "I've been talking with Ms. Stern, and um, I asked her if it'd be alright to take you out for a little bit. You know, just to hang out, talk. Those kinds of things."

Connor looked up from the puzzle box, at Hank. Another flash in his eyes, a flash of surprise.

"Why?"

"I-I don't know. Geez." Hank tapped a finger against the bench, shrugging. "Maybe because I'm feeling nice? Look, you don't have to go with me if you don't want to, it's only an offer. If you'd rather stay here then-"

"No, no, I-" He'd interrupted him. Oh, he could only imagine the annoyance on Ms. Stern's face at his doing that. Connor must've seen it, because he stopped talking and swallowed hard. He looked calm but his eyes were nervous, darting back to Hank and locking firmly on him.

"I mean, I'd like to. I'd like to hang out with you, Sheriff, that would be nice."

"Now Connor, Sheriff Anderson said it was only an offer." Amanda cooly interceded, her footsteps unfortunately nearing the two of them. "You don't have to accept it. If you wish to stay and finish your reading, then you're welcome to do that instead."

"No, Ms. Stern. I-I want to go. I do." Connor clasped both hands together, shaking his head. "Please?"

Now Hank looked back at her. He had to fight down a snort, because she looked like she'd swallowed a lemon in one whole bite. Why she'd suddenly told Connor he didn't have to go when only a little while ago she'd said it was alright, he didn't know, but he also didn't care enough to question it. He'd be well off not questioning anything this woman said or did, not out loud anyways.

Even if it was going to be difficult for him to do so. He'd come here hoping for answers to his questions, and while a few questions had indeed been answered, there were so many left unanswered at the same time. Perhaps more of them would be answered later.

"You did tell me it was alright for him to go, Ms. Stern." he reminded her, after she'd still not answered Connor's plea.

"That I did…hm. Very well." What looked to be the tiniest, faintest smile tugged at the corners of Connor's lips as his caseworker at last relented. "I suppose you may go, Connor. Promise me you'll be on your best behavior?"

"Yes ma'am, I promise." Connor nodded with ernst. He started picking all his books up, alongside the puzzle box, then stood up from the bench. "I'll do the best I can."

"Good. I'd expect nothing less from you." Hank inwardly shuddered at the smile Ms. Stern had turned towards Connor, and subsequently, towards him. She nodded.

"Take care of him, Mr. Anderson. Make sure he stays out of trouble this time."

"Oh don't worry. I think we'll be fine." He hadn't meant to answer her so brashly, but if even she couldn't sense his dislike towards her by now then she wasn't as sharp as she made herself out to be. Connor seemed to sense it though, judging by the way his eyes were going back and forth between the two adults as he walked up to them.

"I-I just have to grab my coat, Sheriff, then I'll be ready to go."

Hank blinked, turning away from the staring contest he'd inadvertently started with Ms. Stern.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, that's okay. I'll just um-I'll wait for you in the lobby."

Connor nodded, and not before exchanging one more glance between the adults, left the room, cradling his books and puzzle box to his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

The clouds were parting and the sun had begun to just barely peak through them by the time Hank and Connor arrived on the main road into Lovington. The car ride there had been a somewhat quiet and uneventful one-up until a point, that was. For the first several minutes, it'd been nothing but static air between Hank and the young boy, no sounds, no music, no talking, save for the whooshing of air from the vents.

They'd not really spoken much since leaving Corvitae, and not because of a lack of effort, either. The truth was, Hank just hadn't known what to say. Had this been the Connor he'd taken home to the Phelps house, maybe he would've had some idea, but he was still trying to wrap his head around this sudden mood change. It made no sense to him, how calm he was, how collected he seemed to be. In fact, he had more in common with the Connor they'd had cuffed in the interrogation room rather than the scared child Hank had left with possible abusers.

He wondered if that had something to do with it, but he didn't ask. It wasn't the right time. He and Connor were back to square one now, and he didn't think either of them were about to ask each other anything deeply personal-nor would they be getting to that level, either. All this was going to be was a nice, simple little outing, no more, no less. They'd talk, they'd hang out, but that was it.

It wasn't going to get any deeper than that.

Now about thirty-five minutes into the drive, Hank wasn't been able to stand the silence any longer. He eyed Connor, then eyed the radio station. As far as he saw it, he had three options here-try to talk to Connor, turn on the radio, or talk to Connor _and_ turn on the radio. He wasn't normally one to ask permission (which was ironic given his profession), but he was getting the feeling if he just simply turned the radio on now without giving a warning, Connor would jump right out of his seat.

Regardless of his attitude change, Hank saw a lot of that same, jumpy behavior he'd noticed while he was talking Mr. and Mrs. Phelps. It'd probably be better to say something, just to be on the safe side.

"Hey, uh," Connor blinked, looking over to Hank as the other man began to speak. "So, it's gettin' a bit too quiet in here. Do ya mind if we put some music on?"

Connor blinked again.

"No, of course not. Go ahead."

Words. They'd exchanged their first words since leaving. That was some type of progress, right? It had to be. Alright, Hank could take that. It was a small step but he'd already taken a lot of big ones by driving all the way out to Corvitae today. He could make do with some smaller ones.

"Okay..uh..." He nodded towards the radio, twisting the steer wheel around as car rounded a sharp bend. "Radio's right there, put it on whatever station you like."

"Me?" Connor looked-and sounded-a bit surprised. His hands slid from where he'd had them folded on his lap, something Hank had noticed he did an awful lot. "I-I can't, this is your car, I'm-"

"And so what? I said you could." Hank grunted as he pressed his foot down on the brake, the car rounding another bend. "With how many bends we're hittin', I don't trust myself to take my hands off this thing. Go on, take your pick."

Another few quiet seconds passed, and Hank moved his foot over the gas pedal as he had noticed he was going just a little bit under the actual speed limit. You'd think he wouldn't forget such a thing after living in this town for most of his life. Thanks to the sudden onslaught of heavy metal in his ears, however, his foot landed onto the pedal with a little more force than he'd meant it to, and the car jolted both him and Connor forward.

Connor didn't seem too perturbed, which amazed Hank, and instead had relaxed back into his seat. After he'd recovered himself and brought the car back to the appropriate speed, Hank shared a bewildered glance between the calm, quiet teen and the loud, angry music playing from the radio. These things...did not seem to mesh at all. No, these things definitely didn't go together at all, in fact there was no way that Ms. Stern had allowed Connor to listen to _Knights of the Black Death_ of all fucking things.

Wait. Did she even let those kids listen to music at all?

Hank shook away that thought, and went back to focusing on his driving. Though, even as he looked out at the road, he still had the mental image in his mind of a composed and quiet Connor just calmly sitting back in his seat while loud music rocked his entire surroundings. This kid was confusing as all hell, there was no way just a simple conversation in Speedy's Diner was going to help him figure anything else out.

"Huh. I didn't take you for the heavy metal type." he commented, bringing the car to a stop as they happened upon a red light. "You actually like this stuff?"

"I don't...uh, no. Actually." Connor picked at the cuffs of his sleeves, half-shrugging. "If you want me to change the station I can-"

"Hey, no," Hank pulled the car forward, as the light turned green, while simultaneously reaching to crank up the volume. "Did I sound like I was complaining? I love this shit, I just wanted to know if you liked it. That's all."

"Oh. I…." Connor went back to pressing his hands into his lap, though one of them slipped into his coat pocket momentarily. "No, I mean...I guess I do? It was the only music the Phelps had on the mp3 player they let me borrow, I only really listened to it because it...well…"

"Because it what?"

"Because it drowned everyone else out. I don't know, it just made me feel better." Connor pulled something out from his pocket, beginning to toss it back and forth. "It hurt my ears but...it was a lot nicer than having to listen to all the yelling going on."

Oh.

That was not the response Hank had been expecting. Now he couldn't even laugh at the image he'd had of Connor and the music before.

"But...you don't actually like it?"

"No. I guess not." The something Connor had in his hands flashed in the rearview mirror, rolling around several of his fingers. "I'd like to to like it, though. I told Ms. Stern that once, when she came to visit me. Told her how I liked that the music was loud enough to drown everyone else out, I thought it was funny."

The something stopped rolling between his fingers, as he caught it. Pressing it into his hand, which had now curled up, he looked away.

"She said it was wrong of me to like something like that. She said that made me ignorant…oblivious to everything, you know."

He opened his hand back up, and after a faint moment of looking, Hank could see that the something in question Connor had been playing with was a shiny quarter. He said nothing, only continuing to drive.

"Maybe she was right."

That was the last thing he ended up saying for awhile after that. Hank hadn't felt good replying either, unsure of whether to offer some kind of reassurance or to make some kind of bitter remark regarding Ms. Stern. So, they'd gone back to their former states of not saying anything while the music on the radio went from one song to the next, staying this way up until they pulled up to Speedy's Diner.

It wasn't a hard building to spot, being one of the older buildings in town. Aside from maintenance work and the necessary repairs, it still resembled the same old jukebox diner that Hank had spent a lot of his youth in. Why, if Lovington wasn't already known for the godawful-but-now-defunct Kullman Mines, Hank felt that Speedy's would be it's claim to fame.

He wasn't as to certain which establishment had existed longer, both had been around for as long as he had been. And out of the two, Speedy's certainly held the more fonder memories for him. Stopping in for a burger and root beer float after a high school football game, taking Amelia there for apple pie (and not to mention some of the finest goddamn coffee he'd ever drank), and the time they'd gone there for milkshakes after Cole's first tee-ball game….

They were good memories.

How many of them entailed painful ties was debatable, but Hank had tried to never let those cloud his enjoyment of going there. If Jimmy's Bar wasn't in business, he'd be spending all his off-time here and would surely be welcomed. He'd been friends with the owner since they were both in high school, there was always a spot open for him if he needed coffee and pie after a long hard day of work.

He just hoped it would be able to work the same magic for Connor. Amelia was so certain it would, even if her own situation had been entirely different from Connor's. Hers had been solvable...and Connor's? Hank wasn't so sure what was going on there, yet. There was so much left there to solve.

The parking lot wasn't too crowded, which left many spots available to park in. As he always did, however, Hank pulled into his usual parking spot-which was right next to the giant neon sign with the logo on it. As he opened the car door, he was immediately greeted with that familiar and comforting smell of grilled burgers and the crisp cinnamon baking on an apple pie.

Connor got out after him and walked around to join him on the other side of the car, catching his coin with one more swift toss of it. After doing so, he placed it back into his pocket, and briefly scrutinized the diner's exterior before following Hank up the snow-dusted steps. The two walked inside after Hank pushed open the door, the sounds of Chuck Berry and the ever-increased smell of the burgers and pies greeting them as they did so.

"Well, here we are." Hank didn't know why he hadn't said this when they'd first arrived, but that was because he'd still been trying to figure out where to go from their previous conversation. Connor was looking around, very studiously distracted by his surroundings.

Hm.

He'd figured the checkered floors and bright blue walls would a stark contrast to the marble and walls of pure white that Connor was used to. Hank really wouldn't have been surprised if this was his first time he'd been in a place like this; that Corvitae home seemed so strict and uptight they probably only let the kids eat the fancy, smaller portioned type of crap you'd get at expensive restaurants.

"Er...c'mon, I usually sit over here."

Hank gestured towards his usual table near that sat a halfway from the entrance, but ended up having to nudge Connor into following him, as the boy still seemed to be taking in the room's ambiance. He startled, walking with Hank over to the table where they both sat down. No sooner had they done this when a dark-haired, dark-skinned woman approached them, bringing with her not only the menus and silverware, but the warm, friendly smile that had coerced Hank into being friends with her in the first place.

"Hank, I was wondering when you were going to show up." she greeted, setting the menus down on the table. "I was beginning to get a little concerned when you didn't show up at 12:00, busy day today?"

"Hey, Rose. Yeah, you can say that." Hank returned the smile, picking up his menu. "How's it been around here?"

"Ah, same as always. We've had pretty much every usual in here already, except you that is." She chuckled, looking towards Connor. "Oh, hello! Who've you got with you here, today?"

"My reason for being late." Hank joked, Connor looking at him with the slightest hint of offense in his eyes. That was a new one on him, he swore that kid had more emotions in his eyes than he did his whole face.

 _Was that even possible?_

"Heh, nah uh, I mentioned him yesterday, remember? He's the foster kid Amelia talked me into babysittin'." he explained, unfolding the menu as he nodded towards Connor. "I decided to be nice and treat him to lunch."

"Really now? Hm, well. It's certainly been awhile since you've brought strays in here." Rose teased, receiving a grunt in return from Hank. She turned back to Connor, with a wink. "Not that I have a problem with strays, if I did I wouldn't have let Adam keep his rabbit."

"Huh, yeah. And that worked out so well, didn't it?" Hank jested, not looking up from his menu. "Didn't that fucker end up escaping and getting hit by traffic, anyways?"

"Uh, no, that's not something we're going to discuss right now." Rose sternly dismissed Hank's statement and he shrugged, continuing to look over the menu even though he'd memorized it a long time ago. "I'm more interested in learning your name, young man."

This was directed towards Connor, who before now had also been studying the menu. As soon as Rose had spoken to him though, his eyes had darted back up. His hands were resting on the table, folded together in front of his menu, though his thumbs were twiddling.

"It's Connor, ma'am. Connor Martin."

"Well Connor, it's nice to meet you. I'm Rose." Rose smiled, taking out a small notepad that had been clipped onto her uniform belt. "Maybe Sheriff Anderson didn't mention this, but I'm the owner of this fine establishment. And if I could, I'd like to get you fellas started with something to drink."

She took out and clicked the pen tucked into the notepad.

"Hank, I already know you want your usual black coffee. Unless of course, you've decided to switch it up today?"

"Damn straight. I've been drinking that stuff for thirty years, I ain't about to stop now." Hank turned his menu over, looking up at his friend with a serious glare. "But if I ever answer differently to that question then I want you to shoot me, okay?"

"Oh, I'm sure it'll never come to that. But noted." Rose laughed softly, scribbling on her notepad. "And what about you, Connor? What would you like?"

"Um…" One of Connor's fingers had fallen loose from where it'd been clasped with the others, tapping against where he was currently studying the drinks section of the menu. "Could I...um, could I just get a glass of water, please?"

"You sure? It's been very cold out lately." Rose eyed him from behind the small notepad, sharing the same confused, wondering expression of Hank's, minus her raised eyebrow. "You sure you don't want a warm drink, too? Maybe some hot chocolate?"

"No thank you, ma'am. Water's fine."

"Well, alright then. If that's what you want." She finished writing down their drinks and ripped the paper out, tucking the notepad back onto her belt. "I'll go ahead and get those ready for you guys, then I'll be back to take your meal orders."

She turned, walking away from their table, but not before giving Hank a momentarily puzzled look. He didn't have to wonder why she had, he had the same look on his face himself. Who went to a restaurant and ordered water to drink? That was something they could obtain back at home with no problem, with restaurants you had a full option of sodas and warm drinks to pick from.

Though looking at the menu, Hank had to wonder if Connor had only picked it to be polite-it was the cheapest thing there. Maybe he didn't feel good making Hank spend money on his behalf, provided how many times he'd been in a home where people had to do that for him, and while it would explain a lot if that were the case, Hank didn't like it. He wasn't a fan of spending big money but he had enough to spare, so long as the kid didn't go ordering the most expensive meal available.

"You know," he started, causing Connor to look up. "I wouldn't have been upset if you'd decided to get a hot chocolate, remember, I'm the one treating you. Whatever you get is on me."

"I know that, Sheriff. I just don't want to cause you trouble, that's all." Connor picked at something on the table-a dried piece of food leftover by the previous customer-that he ended up flicking onto the ground. "Ms. Stern told me not to, before I left. She said-"

"No, you know what? I'm stoppin' you there." Hank held up a brief hand to interrupt Connor, which all but completely silenced the boy. He then sat back in his seat, picking up his silverware, which was rolled up in a napkin. "Honestly Connor, I don't fucking care about what she said, the fact is, I have more than enough money to get both of us lunch. If I didn't, I wouldn't have offered to bring you here."

He unrolled the silverware with a soft grunt, setting apart the fork and knife.

"So, if you want a hot chocolate, get one. Get whatever you want, it doesn't matter to me."

Nothing from Connor. No reply, which Hank hadn't really expected one. A brief glance told him he'd ducked his head back down to the menu, not eager at all to continue their conversation. Sighing, Hank did the same, scanning through the various pictures of burgers and sandwiches displayed.

"I don't think I understand…"

Oh, so the conversation wasn't over then? That was a...slight relief.

"It isn't that hard to understand, Connor, I just don't want you thinking-"

"No, not that." Connor's interruption stirred Hank into looking back up from his menu, noticing the boy's creased brow and intense focus on his own menu. "Your friend, she says she owns the diner, right?"

What? He was changing the topic now?

Well, Hank supposed it could be worse. Connor was talking, more so than he had in the car. Maybe he'd just needed some time to warm up to the place...that or he wanted to avoid talking about his apparent worry of making Hank spend money on him.

"Uh...right, yeah, she does. What about it?"

"Well, I noticed that the menu says Speedy's, as does the sign outside." Connor nodded towards the sign, which was barely visible from where they were seated. "If she owns the diner, then why isn't it simply called Rose's Diner?"

"Because-" Hank had to laugh at this, not a lot made him laugh these days but this was such a strange and absurd topic to switch to, that he couldn't help but chuckle at it. More or less, it was a chuckle of disbelief. "Because it's always been known as Speedy's, that's why, and I don't think Rose feels like changing it just because it bothers you."

"I'm not saying it bothers me, Sheriff. I simply think it's fault advertising." Connor stated, in a tone so dead serious that Hank had to refrain from chuckling again. "Wouldn't it make more sense to change it, since she owns it now?"

"Maybe. But like I said, folks around here have always known it as Speedy's." A police siren sounded outside, as one of the patrol cars from the station whirred by the diner. "I just don't think a name change would sit well with 'em. Remember when iHop said they were changing their name to iHob?"

A blank stare was the only reply Hank got. He sighed.

"Okay, well, my point with that is-people know iHop for their pancakes, not their burgers. And people know Speedy's for the guy it was named after, not the person who currently owns it. Where would the sense be in changing it in that case?"

"Oh. I guess I never thought about it like that." Connor lowered his head back towards his menu, another stray finger tapping at the table. Hank shut his menu and dropped it back to the table next to his silverware, sighing as he leaned back in his seat. This was...definitely not how he'd planned this trip on going-or more precisely, how he planned this conversation to go. This was supposed to be a trip to get to know Connor better, not have a debate two drunk people would have at 2 AM after stopping in for late night munchies.

But then again, maybe he had learned a little bit about Connor already, even if it was in small portions. He'd learned he liked...no, listened, to heavy metal (and for very depressing reason), and he also seemed to have a bad habit of changing the conversation topic when it started to concern him.

Hm.

Alright, so the progress bar was slowly being filled, though Hank was starting to get the feeling that this one trip wasn't going to be enough to learn everything Amelia expected him to learn...or what he wanted to learn, actually. He had to admit, while the kid wasn't exactly growing on him yet, he certainly made for an interesting conversationalist when he _did_ talk.

Rose came by a minute later to drop their drinks off, asking Connor again if he didn't want a hot chocolate as she handed him his water. As Hank had expected, he had politely said no and had taken to taking long, quiet sips from his drink, keeping quiet as Hank gave Rose his order. Even when it was his turn to order, it took him a good while even though he'd had a solid six minutes to look at the menu already.

He finally ended up ordering a pulled pork plate and a salad, though there was great hesitation in his voice upon doing so. Hesitation that also carried over when Rose brought their food to them, as he just stared down at the steaming, delicious pile of food on his plate like it was a pile of garbage. Hank had begun to eat immediately, but stopped upon noticing Connor's lack of enthusiasm towards his meal. He'd only seemed to have eaten his salad, while the pork itself remained untouched.

"What's the deal here?" He took another bite of his burger, talking with a full mouth as he picked his cup of coffee back up. "I thought you were over the whole minimal ordering thing, how come your pork is getting cold?"

"I don't know, I guess I'm not hungry." Connor shrugged, continuing to poke with his fork at his untouched food. "At least, not for pork. But I didn't know what else to order, everything else was too much."

"Hey, I told you it didn't matter-"

"No, Sheriff, not too much money. Too much food."

"Too much? Kid, trust me, that's the opposite of a problem." Downing another mouthful of his coffee, Hank sat the mug down and went back to eating his burger. "You get your fill at this place, the only thing you've gotta worry about is having enough room left for dessert-speaking of which, I happen to know that they've got the best apple pie at this place. You wanna get some to take back with you?"

Connor shook his head, stabbing into a piece of pork that he only looked at for a second before scraping it back onto his plate. He took another quiet sip from his water, then pressed his napkin to his mouth before crumpling it into his hand. He tossed it into his empty salad bowl and pushed both that and his plate back, sliding amply out of the booth seat.

"Excuse me."

"Sure." Hank's hand rested on the handle of his coffee mug, as he watched Connor walk down past several tables to the restrooms. Shaking his head, he finished off what was left in his mug, then reached into his coat pocket, digging through for his wallet. Rose walked back over, with a pot of coffee in-hand.

"You know, somehow I'm not surprised it only took you a few minutes to finish that." she said, gesturing towards his empty mug on the table. "I just made a fresh pot, if you were wanting a second cup."

"Actually, no, that'll be all, Rose. I think it's time we were leaving anyways." After a couple of tough yanks, Hank managed to pull his beat up old wallet out from where it had been buried deep into coat. "Just make it a to-go cup, will ya?"

"Sure thing. I'll have it ready for you at the register." Rose nodded, though Hank could see that she was studying Connor's full plate of food with great concern. She didn't comment on it before leaving to prepare Hank's coffee, though she did ask if he'd wanted a to-go box as well. Hank was about to say no on Connor's behalf, especially since there was no way he was going to bother eating the food later if he hadn't now. But, he also didn't like the idea of food going to waste, so he agreed to the to-go box, which Rose brought by before going back to the register.

Connor was coming back from the bathroom as Hank finished scooping all the food into the box, rubbing his hands together-something that Hank still didn't know was a nervous tick or if he because if it was chilly in here, which it wasn't. It was very much well-heated, so it more than likely the former, and the fourth new thing Hank had learned about Connor today.

Alongside listening to heavy metal for vague reasons and switching conversation topics, he seemed to be an extremely fidgety person with a small appetite, which slightly alarmed Hank just as much as his talk about being deserving of punishment had.

Well, he supposed he could add that to the mental list of Connor facts that he'd been collecting since their first conversation in at the sheriff's station. Anymore and he'd have to start writing this stuff down in a notebook.

But even if that didn't happen, that didn't mean he was entirely satisfied with how their lunch had gone. He didn't know why he'd been expecting it to go any better, he was just proving himself right by having done this. He didn't have any of his great conversational skills anymore, he didn't have anything left that would even remotely aid in trying to figure out Connor. The kid was a basketcase compared to Amelia, and Hank didn't know if that intrigued or frustrated him.

Both. Maybe it was both of those things. Either way, he was no closer to having this kid figured out than he was to figuring out what was going on with the sudden red ice problem in town. And at the rate he was going, he had no idea which one he'd have solved first.

* * *

After they'd paid and Hank had gotten his to-go coffee, the duo headed back outside to where his car had been dusted over by the brief falling of snow that had passed over while they were inside eating. Connor climbed into the passenger's side, while Hank opened the backseat and sat his to-go box in with the other items that had been accumulating there for the past several months-including that of empty soda cans, beer cans, and other takeout boxes that had once served as his meals during many a late night of patrolling.

"You should really tidy up back there." He looked over to see Connor peering over his seat. "Did you know the more you let a mess accumulate, that you're bound to carry more stress in your life?"

"Heh, sure. Listen kid, I've got enough stress in my life and I guarantee you-" Hank stepped out from the backseat and shut the door, heading to the driver's side. "-that that mess back there is not the root of it. Besides, I don't think it's hurting anybody."

"If you say so." Connor plopped back into his seat, pulling his coin back out from his pocket. He started to play around with it as Hank got into the car. "But it might be better to tidy up anyways, it's been proven that doing so is beneficial for your mental and physical health."

"Jesus, you're startin' to sound like Amelia." Hank took a quick sip from his coffee before setting it down in the cupholder. "Let me guess, all that is just more bullcrap that Ms. Stern told you?"

"No. I read it somewhere." Connor hummed, flipping the coin over to his thumb. "Ms. Stern got tired of me asking her questions all the time and told me to just find the answers for myself. So that's what I do, I research things. Even when I'm not doing schoolwork, I still like to read a lot."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yes. Especially books about criminology, those are some of my favorites-"

Hank's phone buzzed as he reached to retrieve his keys, causing him to drop them back into his pocket and pick the phone up instead. His hand nearly wilted when he read the caller ID-Ben Collins. Damnit, hadn't he told Amelia to tell everyone he'd be taking the day off?

"Err, hang on, Connor, listen. That's great and all, but I've gotta take this." Hank had hated to interrupt Connor now, especially since they were finally talking about that the stuff he'd been trying to find out while they were in the diner. Connor's mouth snapped shut and he fell back in his seat, nodding solemnly as he once again began to play with his quarter.

Accepting the call, Hank pressed the phone to his ear and resumed retrieving his keys.

"Yeah, Ben? What's up?"

"Hey Hank, sorry to bother you like this. I know Amelia said you were taking the day off but…" Ben's voice trailed off a bit. "There's been another incident...with red ice involved. We need you over here right now."

"Are you sure?" Hank grunted, as despite his constant turning of the key, the car was refusing to start. "You guys have been handling the last couple of incidents pretty well, I doubt you need me-"

"No, Hank, listen. This isn't like those other incidents…"

Hank felt his blood running cold, hand seizing on the keys as the engine finally roared to life.

"When you say...not like the other incidents, you mean-"

"I mean it isn't a drug dealer this time, Hank. There's been another murder."


End file.
